Coming Clean
by ElegantGhost
Summary: Arthur struggles to break his addiction to an experimental compound. Eames is there to help him through his withdrawals. Once he's clean, can they stop the compound from being released on the underground market? No slash intended. Just bromance. *On hiatus until I finish a Star Trek: 2009 story called Visions of Sleep*
1. Compound 1084

_Disclaimer: I own no part of Inception. This is all in good fun._

* * *

Arthur walked to the window of his penthouse apartment. He took a deep breath as he looked out over the city. Both hands smoothed back his hair in an attempt to stay calm.

It would be fine. Everything would be fine.

His heart was pounding. Ever since he'd allowed Yusuf to test a new compound on him over a month ago, things had been… somewhat chaotic. They'd been perfecting the compound together, working out the kinks before it was sold on the underground market. The dreams were crystal clear. The length of sedation was accurate to the second. But there was a problem.

Arthur noticed the cravings a week into their experiments. Going home at night began to test his temper. He wanted – no, _needed – _the compound flowing through his veins. He needed it like he needed air. Mornings became difficult as his body went into withdrawals overnight. It was a challenge to keep up appearances when half his morning was spent bent over the toilet, but he began rising earlier to accommodate this new development. If he wasn't freshly showered, sporting a crisp suit and gelled hair, Yusuf might begin suspecting something. He might begin asking questions, doubt Arthur's answers, and take the compound back to the lab. Who knows what he would do to forever reverse the feeling of exhilaration it provided.

Something had to give. Arthur knew that. Either Yusuf would pause his note-taking long enough to go into the field or he would bring someone else in to test the compound as well. It was only scientific to account for every possible variable. Their deadline was drawing nearer. He would have to come clean – so to speak – sooner or later. If Yusuf's buyers discovered how addicting the compound was in certain users, they would permanently dispatch him.

But it would be unprofessional to admit he was addicted. Not to mention humiliating. He would need to come up with another excuse. Pacing, Arthur glanced at his watch. It was time to leave for the warehouse and he hadn't come up with anything yet. He sharply slammed both hands against the window. Maybe he could _think_ if his stomach would stop twisting itself in knots and his heart would stop pounding. Any feeling of normalcy would help.

"Dammit," he cursed. His hands were starting to shake, warning him that his façade window was closing. He'd waited too long the other day and was forced to call in sick. It was one of the worst days of his life. Only shots of Jack Daniels had relaxed him enough to return to work the following day.

"Well," he muttered, shrugging into his coat. "One last ride before I reach the flames of hell."

* * *

"It's about time you joined us, darling."

The words stopped Arthur in his tracks. He paused in the warehouse doorway, staring at Eames and Yusuf where they sat. Eames was leaning back with his hands interlaced behind his head, one eyebrow raised. Yusuf sat with an ankle resting on one knee, glasses on, and clipboard already out. He looked as though he was questioning Eames…

"What's all this?" Arthur skipped pleasantries.

"That's it, then?" Eames _tsked, tsked_. "Is this the moment of our reunion, Arthur? Because I must say, love, I'm less than touched."

Arthur slowly turned and closed the warehouse door. Breathe in. Breathe out. He had known this would happen. There was no need to break out into a cold sweat. There was no need to clench his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. Smoothing his strained expression, he turned and walked briskly towards them.

"You look overworked, Arthur. Still the stick in the mud you were when I left?"

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Eames. I gather you've had enough of Mombasa?" Arthur immediately began setting up the Portable Automated Somnacin Intravenous (PASIV) Device. Time was slipping away. He could feel it.

"He's going into the field with you," Yusuf murmured, scrawling his notes. "In order to approve the compound, we need to be certain the projections are replicable."

Eames glanced at Arthur. "He wanted the best."

"Ego notwithstanding."

"The most crafty are always the most egotistical, darling."

"And the most talkative."

"Social skills deteriorating already? No time for a cup of coffee this morning?"

Arthur leaned his head back, blinking at the ceiling. The withdrawals were getting worse. The mere mention of coffee was enough to make him swallow against the bile rising in his throat.

"Yusuf," he started, "I should go under alone this first run." His hands moved over the buttons of the PASIV Device with practiced speed. It was best to keep them as busy as possible until he was under. He stripped off his jacket and began rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

"What for? To say good morning to your subconscious and so forth?" Eames eyed him curiously. Something flickered behind his eyes, but it was gone before Arthur could identify it.

"He might be right," Yusuf intervened. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "It would be better if I knew your full history before we test the compound on you."

"Remind me again why you don't have it from our last job."

Yusuf glanced at his notes. "You know how people in our line of work feel about a paper trail. And since your demeanor is more memorable than your medical history, letting Arthur dream for five minutes without you is the safest way to proceed."

"Safe for me perhaps," Arthur heard Eames mutter, "But not for him."

Cracking a smile despite his pain, Arthur carried the silver case to the lounge chairs. Eames had always been protective. It was as if he felt the need to shield everyone from the harsh realities of the world.

And it was a little late for that.

Eames strolled over as he reclined in the chair and reached for the cuff. "Always need to do everything yourself then, eh?"

"Far be it for me to disrupt a meeting of the two _best _minds our field has to offer."

"Really, darling, you flatter me." He took a seat on the lounge chair and gently took the cuff from Arthur's hand. For the briefest moment, Arthur worried the man would use it himself. But then he began strapping the cuff around Arthur's wrist.

Arthur shook his head. It was becoming difficult to think within reason. Why would Eames use the compound just now? He was sitting up. And Yusuf hadn't even finished his health screening yet. What was he doing in the warehouse again? Arthur reached for the loaded die in his pocket, ignoring the genuine concern that poured into Eames' expression. He rolled it on the cement, out of the man's view. Six. Good. It was always a six in reality. Snatching it up, he stowed it away like nothing had happened.

Eames had watched his actions silently, but now he spoke up. "What was that about, hmm?" He ran an alcohol swab over Arthur's wrist and inserted the needle.

"Your offer to assist caught me off guard, that's all. Compound #1084?"

Eames finished securing the cuff before shifting to read the compound label. "Compound #1084."

Arthur felt a sense of comfort as Eames stood. His eyes closed of their own accord. His arm clenched in anticipation. He tried to rest his head in a comfortable position to avoid a stiff neck when he woke in ten minutes.

Eames cleared his throat. Arthur opened his eyes, annoyance giving way to anger.

"Ready then?"

"Asshole. Just push the button."

There was a soft _hiss _as the infusion trigger was compressed. Arthur immediately felt the sensation of floating into the air, rising high above the warehouse floor. His veins felt as though they had been sunburned. The burning gave way to a magnificent warmth that carried him away on a sea of darkness. Distantly, he heard a sigh and a whisper.

"Sweet dreams, love."

* * *

Arthur was sitting at the bar when Eames strolled in. It was a business establishment, and he looked out of place among the suit-wearing projections. He seemed to notice this as quickly as Arthur. In the blink of an eye, his flamboyant shirt was replaced by a respectable pinstripe button-up and tie. He walked up to the polished bar and took a seat on the barstool beside Arthur.

"Bit early for a drink, isn't it?"

"My dream. My rules," Arthur replied.

He watched the forger's eyes roam the selection behind the bar. None of the bottles had labels. They were all filled with bright liquid of varying shades. The bartender wandered over.

"Care for a drink, sir?"

"What would you recommend?" Eames looked curious.

"Hey," Arthur intervened. "Don't question my subconscious."

"It's a simple question, really."

"Just because I have the misfortune of being the dreamer and the subject doesn't mean you can question whoever you damn well please." Arthur spoke to the bartender. "He'll have what I'm having."

"Compound number seven," the bartender said before moving away.

Arthur gave a sigh of frustration as he felt Eames' eyes on him. "Don't read too much into it."

"Reading people is a tremendous part of my job."

The bartender came back with a full shot glass. "Jack Daniels."

"Much obliged," Eames nodded as he took a sip. "There's an important matter we need to discuss, Arthur."

Arthur tossed back the rest of his drink. Though his… well, his _fix _had been taken care of, a headache began to manifest just behind his right ear. Trust present company to inflict such a punishment.

"Finish your drink and let's get out of here." He stood, dug a crisp bill out of his pocket, and tossed it on the bar.

"I must say, you certainly know how to charm a fellow."

"We're here to work." He rubbed his neck, willing away the headache.

"Right." Eames nodded and finished his shot. "Off we go then. I can talk on the way."

"Cut the chatter, will you? Replicate my most complicated projection so we can leave."

Arthur turned to walk out the door, but Eames clamped a hand on his shoulder and stopped him. The room went silent as he turned. The projections were staring at them, but if Eames noticed, he made no indication of it. There was a seriousness in his expression that kept Arthur from speaking or pulling away.

"I'm afraid it isn't that simple." The usual playfulness in his eyes had disappeared. "Not today, anyway. I don't suppose you've noticed any side effects of compound #1084?" His hand dropped from Arthur's shoulder as he waited for a response. The projections around them resumed talking in low tones.

Arthur pressed his lips together in a firm line and swallowed. "You know." It wasn't a question. The directness of Eames' confrontation and that he'd waited until they were alone made it clear.

With a sigh, Eames gave a brief nod. "The addictive properties of the compound are already being studied by my true employer in hopes of finding a way to eliminate them. When I discovered Yusuf had already begun testing it on human subjects-" he paused, jaw clenching. "I made an arrangement with my true employer to offer myself to Yusuf for testing as well. He never sought me out, darling. I sought him out."

The throbbing behind Arthur's ear intensified. He was becoming agitated. Under the effects of the compound, he was never agitated. Something was different.

"If the compound is so addicting, why not tell Yusuf when you met with him this morning? Why allow me to go under? Or put yourself under, for that matter?"

Eames rubbed his hand over his face. "Walk with me." He took Arthur's elbow and led him from the bar.

"What the hell is going on, Eames?"

"Yusuf is a brilliant chemist. Formulating his own compounds day and night, offering them to dreamers for a reasonable price, all of that. But he's bloody mad."

As Eames continued to speak, the dreamscape around them grew sharper. The cracks in the sidewalk were magnified in Arthur's eyes until he saw every pebble within the concrete. The grain of each telephone pole was defined by abrupt crevasses in the wood.

"Yusuf had the idea several months ago to create a compound that would keep buyers coming back for more," Eames went on beside him. "The more they needed it, the more he could charge for it."

"He would be risking his life," Arthur muttered. As the dreamscape grew even sharper, his thoughts became muddled.

"What could buyers do about it?" Eames asked. "Extract the formula from his subconscious? The king of dreams? No. And they certainly wouldn't kill him, would they? No way of getting the formula then. I'm afraid the only risk in developing the compound was to those he tested it on. You didn't find it odd that he never joined you in one of your little dreamscapes?"

"He rarely goes into the field." Arthur stopped walking. His feet felt like they were made of lead. "So your employer sent you to Yusuf to stop him before the compound was available on the underground market?"

"Precisely. Dreams are addicting enough without the masses discovering this compound. Fatalities could be in the thousands." The forger's hand came up to feel Arthur's forehead. "Are you feeling all right there, darling? You look a bit flushed."

Arthur ignored the question. His agitation was increasing. "Why not just kill the man?"

Eames looked surprised. "Well, I couldn't very well do anything rash until you detoxed, could I? No telling what lethal chemicals came together to form the compound. That, and my employer wants him alive."

Arthur's eyes rolled back in his head and his knees buckled. He heard Eames' sharp intake of breath before hands caught him under the arms.

"Bloody hell," Eames muttered. Then louder, "Arthur, what's wrong? Can you hear me?"

Arthur felt Eames gently lower him onto the concrete. It was unpleasantly cold. Fingers pressed against his neck. His tie was loosened.

"Mm tired," he whispered. His strength had left him.

A hand patted his chest. "Open your eyes and look at me, Arthur." There was a note of insistence in the forger's voice. "Look at me. The dream isn't collapsing so I know you can hear me, you stubborn dolt."

Arthur managed to force his eyes open to see Eames bent over him. The sky above was a crystal clear blue. It felt as if he was spinning. Spinning…

"Naptime's over, love."

Eames hauled him into a sitting position and his head flopped back. He made a sound of protest in his throat.

"Sorry, but work has been cancelled. What we need is a good kick and you won't get one laying down." Eames took his wrist and placed his arm across his shoulders. Before Arthur knew it, the forger had dragged him to his feet. He did his best to stay standing, but in the end, his legs were limp. There was nothing he could do to help.

They began slowly moving, Arthur's shoes dragging on the sidewalk. Eames was breathing heavily before they'd gone far.

"Right then. Forgive me, but this will be easier on both of us." He stooped and swiftly lifted Arthur into his arms.

It was difficult for Arthur to do much of anything, much less keep his eyes open. The projections were staring at them as they moved down the street, but instead of looking angry, they actually looked concerned. Was it possible they knew Eames was trying to help him? He thought so, although from what they'd learned in the past, the conscious mind had little influence over the subconscious projections. It was too much for him to process. He groaned against the dizziness.

"Almost there," Eames said above him.

They approached a hotel and the doorman quickly moved to open the door for them. "Good day to you, sir," the doorman tipped his hat. They entered the lobby.

"Your subconscious is unfailingly polite at a time like this," Eames noted between breaths. "Pity they couldn't offer a pistol and escort us out of here, eh?"

They approached the elevators and a projection of a young girl pushed the button for them.

"Thank you, darling."

Arthur began to shake uncontrollably. He was cold.

"You're okay." Eames tightened his grasp as the temperature of the hotel dropped at a frightening rate. The colors around them adopted a blue-hue and each exhale was accompanied by a visible cloud.

"Come on, come on." There was a _ding _as the elevator arrived and the doors opened. It was only slightly warmer inside. The same young girl stepped inside with them and pushed the button for the roof. Arthur could see her through his half-closed eyes. She smiled reassuringly at him as the elevator ascended.

"His ear," she spoke softly.

"What's that?" Eames was beginning to shiver as well.

"His ear."

They reached the roof and Eames wasted no time before he strode for the edge. The elevator girl waved her farewell. Arthur felt breath on his neck as Eames spoke, "Here we are."

He thought Eames was going to drop him first, but the man only took a deep breath before stepping off the ledge. They fell together. Icy air whipped past Arthur's face as gravity claimed them and his stomach lurched.


	2. Vertigo

_Disclaimer: I own no part of Inception. This is all in good fun._

* * *

Eames jolted awake in his chair. The warehouse ceiling loomed over him. A pigeon _burred_ as it flew from one beam to another. An icy breeze had him shivering. He blinked and pushed himself into a sitting position, holding up an arm against the light shining through the open warehouse door. The door creaked on its hinges, gently swaying back and forth.

Yusuf was nowhere to be found.

"Arthur." Eames turned his attention to the man beside him, still reclined and looking worse than he had in the dream. His face was pale and damp with perspiration. Though his eyes were open, they were unfocused and confused.

Eames quickly removed their IVs. He wrapped the tubes around his hand and stowed them in the briefcase before closing it with a _snap_. As he did so, he noticed that the compound vial was nearly empty. There wasn't much to deliver to his employer for further testing. They were running low in the labs and replication had proved unpredictable. A quick look around confirmed his fears. Not only was Yusuf gone, but he'd taken all other evidence of his work with him.

"Arthur, look at me." Eames sat on the edge of the lounge chair and took hold of the man's chin, directing his line of sight. His forehead creased with concern when he realized Arthur's eyes were afflicted with nystagmus, horizontally darting back and forth.

"Are you feeling dizzy?" He pulled a penlight from inside his jacket and shined it into his eyes.

"Stop the spinning," Arthur slurred in response. "And get that outta my face."

Eames bit back a sarcastic retort when he noticed blood on the collar of the man's shirt. When he leaned in closer and directed Arthur to look the other way, he saw a thin trail of blood just behind his ear. It originated from a needle prick.

He clenched his jaw and inwardly cursed himself for not realizing Yusuf's ability to listen to everything Arthur heard. It only required a Portable Intravenous Audio Recording (PIVAR) Device. They were extremely rare. Yusuf hadn't revealed access to one on jobs they'd worked before. It was troubling news; not only because it further endangered Arthur's life, but because it meant Yusuf had a financially powerful sponsor backing the addictive compound's development.

Not to mention the fact that he'd heard Eames confess his true purpose and disappeared without a trace.

"Could this day get any better?" Eames rose to his feet and marched to the tool cabinet, where they kept the first aid supplies. Yanking open a drawer, he snatched a packet of sterile gauze and a roll of medical tape. Before returning to the chair, he closed the warehouse door and grabbed Arthur's jacket.

"There we are, darling." He spread the jacket over him like a blanket. "First-rate service, hmm?"

He cleaned the skin around the needle prick using an alcohol swab. If espionage was Yusuf's plan, there was little chance he'd been hygienic with the needle. Arthur sucked in his breath and jerked away when the swab touched the wound.

"Prick," he spat.

"Yes, it is," Eames answered.

He used a wipe to clean his hands before opening the packet of gauze. As he was placing it over the wound, he heard Arthur say, "You should've gone after him."

"Beg your pardon?" Eames reached for the tape.

"Yusuf."

He raised his eyebrows. "Really now? What was I to do, track his scent? Yusuf ripped the IV from your inner ear, producing a wave of vertigo that compounded in the dream and you collapsed. Since brain function with compound #1084 is ten times normal and it took us a while to initiate the kick-"

"He had a thirty-second lead on us."

"Math was never my strong subject, but somewhere around there. In a car." Eames pressed the tape in place. "According to my experience, two or three turns will lose a tail. Are you feeling better at all?"

Arthur answered with an involuntary gag, turning and depositing his stomach contents on the other side of the chair. With a grimace, Eames awkwardly patted the man's back. "It'll take several hours for the vertigo to disappear. In the meantime, we should get out of here before Yusuf phones his security to come take care of us."

He walked around the chair and sat beside Arthur, trying not to stare at the mess on the floor. Once the man's arm was around his shoulders, he stood and half-dragged him to the door.

"Where are we going?" Arthur breathed.

"What, worried about the mess? I'll request maid service."

"Too tired to play games, Eames. Where-"

"To your place."

"Can't you stay in a hotel? There's are reasons we never reveal where we live. Yusuf's betrayal is one of them."

"Even if you _could_ drive, love, we have other issues to tend to. I need to know everything about your work with Yusuf. Any detail might tell us where he's going. Why don't you start by detailing how and when he contacted you?"

They made it outside before Eames bent to lift Arthur into his arms again.

"No," the man snapped, making a half-hearted effort to pull away. "I'm not a child. I can walk."

"And you're doing a marvelous job." Eames left the matter alone as they reached his rental car. He tightened his grasp on Arthur's wrist and opened the door with his other hand. It was a challenge to lower Arthur into the car when he was so off-balance. They bumped heads before the man flopped back, head in the driver's seat.

"Bloody hell." Eames massaged the growing knot on his forehead before grasping Arthur's pant legs and lifting his legs into the car. "I don't recall our last meeting being quite so painful." When Arthur was finally in the car, he shut the door and darted back into the warehouse to grab the PASIV Device. His eyes scanned the tables for any trace of information as he left, but the few papers about were useless.

"Up you go, darling," he muttered when he opened the driver's door. Cradling Arthur's head with care for the bandage, he slid into the car while pushing Arthur against the passenger door. "You could rest your head in my lap, but we might attract some attention if we stopped alongside a bus."

When Arthur didn't reply with his usual, far-too-serious retort, Eames eyed his trembling hands and rapid breathing with worry. They needed to reach the apartment soon. Knowing how logical Arthur was, he was sure to have an enormous selection of over-the-counter, prescription, herbal, and experimental medicines tucked away somewhere.

"Are you still with me, Arthur?" He slid the briefcase in the back, started the car, and pulled away from the warehouse.

"Hmm."

"Can you tell me how Yusuf contacted you? How did he describe the job to you?"

Arthur moaned. Eames wasn't certain if it was because he was annoyed, nauseous, or both.

"Come on, Arthur, this is important."

"He needed a point man to analyze the clarity of the compound-induced dreams. The details. Ordinary scientific concepts. Weather. Nothing I haven't done before."

"How did he contact you? Phone or third-party?"

"Right."

"Which one?"

"Turn right!"

"Oh," Eames slammed on the brakes and made the turn. "Back to my question-"

"It was a third-party. Can we do this later? When the world rights itself again?" His stomach noisily hitched and he clamped a hand over his mouth.

"Not on the leather, darling. Who was the third-party? And don't bother telling me that you aren't at liberty to say. When this many lives are at stake, the privacy arrangement between contacts is void."

Arthur took a deep breath. The vertigo must have been unbearable in a moving car. Eames grasped the man's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze before returning his hand to the wheel. He periodically checked the mirror to make sure they weren't being tailed.

"Turn left here. Yusuf contacted me through Lewis. Richard Lewis. He's – well, he _was_ my business contact for this area. As soon as he realizes I mentioned his name, I'll need to find a new contact. This is it."

Eames slowed the car and parallel parked just outside the building's front doors. It was an impressive well-to-do kind of place, sleek and clean in the heart of the city.

"Fifteen-minute parking," Arthur pointed to the sign beside them.

"It's a rental." Eames opened the driver door. "Used an alias."

Getting Arthur upstairs was a challenge, but they managed. It was late enough for the employed to be at work, yet early enough for the unemployed to still be dreaming in their beds.

They moved through the sparse lobby and empty hallways until they reached Arthur's floor. It was there they bypassed an old man in a Greek fisherman's hat.

"If I've told you once, I've told you a million times," Eames spoke loudly enough for the man to hear. "There's no need to walk home when the bars close. If you can't drive, just call me. Honestly."

When they reached Arthur's door, he grunted and reached into his pocket for the key. Trouble was, he merely grazed the doorknob whenever he tried to insert it. Eames couldn't hold back an amused smirk as he watched someone who usually had sharp, purposeful movements fail at unlocking a simple door. It was as if Arthur sensed his amusement. The man's eyes met his in a glare.

Eames cleared his throat and snatched the key, pointedly inserting it into the lock with ease to let them inside.

"Asshole."

"Really? A mad chemist recruited you to be his lab rat, addicted you to a chemical compound, and violated your inner ear with an IV enough so that you can't stand on your own. You may be misdirecting your sentiment, love."

Arthur dropped his head as they entered the living room. "I'm sure you've done something to warrant it. But you're right."

"Not to worry, darling. You'll have plenty of chances to make it up to me. The bedroom back here?" He raised an eyebrow as Arthur gave him another look. "I only meant you might be more comfortable sleeping through the next few hours of vertigo."

He chuckled as Arthur yawned at the suggestion.

"All right then."

His back was beginning to protest the effort it took to allow Arthur to keep his dignity. Walking lopsided under the weight of someone else was a recipe for pain. Nevertheless, they made it down the hall and into the spacious bedroom.

The bed was covered by a black comforter. Eames hastily pulled it back with one hand and sat Arthur on the edge of the bed. He went to remove Arthur's tie, but his hands were knocked away.

"I can sleep in my clothes."

"And I wish you the best chaffing your pants have to offer. A tie, on the other hand, will prove even less friendly when it strangles you in your sleep."

Arthur paused, as if he hadn't thought of that. He looked away.

When Eames went to remove the tie a second time, Arthur let him. The combination of compound #1084 and the vertigo must have been catching up with him. His eyes kept glazing over and closing longer than necessary. When the tie was finally off, Eames grasped the man's shoulders and guided him to lay down. He pulled the comforter up over him and took care to close the blinds.

As he was about to leave the room, Arthur spoke.

"Eames?"

"I'm here."

He opened his eyes. "Tomorrow is going to be a bad day, isn't it?"

Eames paused before answering. Detoxing was never a pleasant experience. Aside from the physical discomfort and pain, there was the possibility of life-threatening heart problems, dehydration, and seizures. Tomorrow wouldn't be the half of it. They had a long road ahead of them. And all the while, Yusuf would be further developing the compound, leaving them in the dust like a failed experiment.

Eames could have said any of this. He could have been the voice of reality. But Arthur didn't need someone to confirm his doubts. Those voices were loud enough.

So instead he said, "Let's focus on today, and we'll face whatever tomorrow brings together."


	3. The Night Before

_Disclaimer: I own no part of Inception. This is all in good fun._

* * *

Arthur opened his eyes. He couldn't help but groan with pain before covering his face with his hands. The vertigo may be gone, but the headache behind his ear wasn't. His mouth kept flooding with saliva even though he wasn't nauseous. At least that was something to be grateful for.

According to his watch, it was six o'clock. He'd slept through the entire day? His hand moved to the totem in his pocket. Propping himself up on an elbow, he rolled the die on the bedside table. Reality.

There was muffled talking down the hall. Arthur stowed the die in his pocket before he froze, listening intently to identify the second voice. But Eames was going on and on… would he ever stop to take a breath? He didn't sound panicked, so there was probably no need to grab the Glock 17.

Throwing back his covers, Arthur slid out of bed and knelt down. You could never be too careful. He grabbed the spare gun where it was holstered beneath the bed frame and stood, shoving it in the front waistband of his pants. After smoothly gliding to the door, he cracked it open and listened.

"I already told you, I don't know," Eames spoke. "You'll need to figure it out on your own."

Arthur crept down the hall, hand resting on the gun. Eames and whoever he was talking to must have been in the kitchen. He peered around the corner before sharply pulling his head back.

A phone. He sighed. The most obvious conclusion and he'd missed it. Pain must be getting the best of him. His hand dropped from the gun as he walked into view. Who could Eames be talking to?

Eames had his back to him, still wearing his jacket and looking tense in the shoulders.

"There was no way for us to follow him. I could have put a tracer on the car, but he's been trained to look for things like that. Thought we'd be working together longer than an hour. Right."

He turned and paused when he saw Arthur leaning against the wall. His eyes dropped to the gun.

"Uh, I need to go. But we'll talk soon." Arthur watched him hang up. "Is something wrong, love?"

"Not unless you count the pounding in my head."

"Ah, yes, let me take a look at that." He walked up to Arthur and motioned for him to turn his head. Gentle fingers pried away the bandage and prodded the skin around the wound. Arthur clenched his jaw in pain. "Sorry about that. I don't see any leaking fluid, so you should be in the clear." He snapped his fingers beside the ear. "Hear that all right?"

Arthur nodded, feeling a low anger building toward Yusuf. PIVAR Devices were still experimental and notorious for causing deafness. There were several choice words he wished to express when they tracked the asshole down.

Eames stepped back and strolled to the window. "We'll find him, Arthur. Afraid I can't let you use this, however." He held up the gun.

Damn. Checking the waistband of his pants, Arthur realized it was gone.

"Eames-"

"Hazard of dancing with a pickpocket, darling. Even if my employer didn't insist that Yusuf remain alive, I would've had to disarm you before morning. Apparently detoxing puts one in a rather nasty frame of mind."

"You already have my other gun, I take it?" He crossed his arms.

"The one in your jacket this morning? Yes, it felt a little heavy on one side."

"And the briefcase?"

"Retrieved it from the car after putting you to bed."

"Where is it?"

"With your other gun," Eames answered. He cocked his head, as if waiting for Arthur to demand to know the location. _I'm not a bloody fool, _his expression read.

Arthur walked into the kitchen and grabbed two glasses from the cupboard. He refused to give Eames the satisfaction of viewing his inner struggle. Of course he wanted to know where the briefcase was. In fact, he'd already worked out that it wasn't in the apartment. Everything from the closets to the drawers were too organized to keep anything that large hidden for long. That meant it was somewhere else. What connections did Eames have in the city?

"Can I offer you a drink?" he asked over his shoulder.

"I already helped myself to one, but yes, another would be appreciated."

Perhaps a bank. Arthur uncapped the bottle of Jack Daniels he kept on the fridge. Or a safe house. He poured a generous amount of whiskey into each glass. Knowing Eames, it would be somewhere unexpected. He pushed the bottle against the wall and picked up the glasses.

When he entered the living room, Eames was sitting on the couch, thumbing through the latest edition of _Newsweek_.

"You know, I truly believe one could die of boredom here." He accepted a glass and tossed the magazine aside. "Hardwood floors, bare walls, a couch and table. Nothing to keep you entertained but a few editions of _Newsweek_ and the Sunday paper. Not even a television. How can you stand it?"

Arthur shrugged as he took a seat on the opposite end of the couch. "I work a lot. When I'm not traveling, I leave early and I'm home late."

"So you're boring."

Eames took a sip of whiskey, ignoring Arthur's glare.

"Except for the part about exploring other worlds and realities. Slipping into roles, fighting projections, extracting information… any of this sound familiar?"

"But all of that is really at the mercy of your ability to dream, you see." He took another sip. "What would you have if dreams no longer existed?"

Arthur downed his drink in two swallows.

"Easy. No need to be dramatic."

"I have plenty of people in my life, Eames."

"If you say so, darling." The man looked around as if to point out the lack of photos.

Arthur went into the kitchen, shaking off the head rush that accompanied hard liquor on an empty stomach. If he'd known Eames was going to be this analytical, he would've stayed in the back room. There was nothing wrong with how he lived. There wasn't. He was happy. Satisfied, at least. Work stimulated his brain, filled the hours, and forced him to interact with people. It also provided the opportunity to explore the impossible.

He scoffed, refilling his glass. He didn't need anything else.

* * *

"You're a lightweight. I never would have guessed." Eames smiled. "Not with whiskey as your drink of choice, anyway."

Arthur struggled to focus on Eames while keeping his glass upright. The bottle of Jack on the table was considerably less full than it had been mere hours before.

"What can I say?" He sank into the couch. "I could never acquire a taste for beer or wine." His words were slurred. Eames, damn him, looked nearly sober.

"What, no red wine for a man of your class? Seems it would be the perfect drink for you."

"If my name were Ariadne," he replied, taking another drink. Then intelligently, "Which it's not."

Eames finished his drink and set the empty glass on the table. "Ariadne has a taste for red wine, does she? How do you know this?"

Arthur stared at the far wall, the corner of his mouth coming up in a smile. "We went to dinner once. Italian. Nothing too fancy. She ordered chicken pesto and Barolo."

"No second dinner?"

Arthur shrugged. "We were both working."

"You mean _you_ were working."

Arthur lolled his head in Eames' direction, too tired to hold it up without the aid of the couch. "I'm no good for her, Eames. Or for anyone else. The work we do is too dangerous and unpredictable to develop stable relationships."

Eames got up and moved closer to Arthur, no doubt to hear him better. It was becoming difficult to speak. His body wanted to sink into oblivion, while his mind was still thriving behind an alcohol-induced fog.

"Be that as it may, Ariadne deserves more credit. Let her decide if she's willing to share a relationship with you."

Arthur's mouth hung open. "Wait a minute. Are you giving me dating advice?" His drink sloshed over the rim. Eames cleared his throat before taking the glass and putting it on the table.

"Too personal?"

"Well… yeah."

"Right then. Moving along." Eames took an object from his pocket and pressed a button. "Now that you're sufficiently pissed, perhaps you could tell me a bit more about Yusuf's compound." He slipped the object back into his pocket.

"Wha-" Arthur stopped, suddenly suspicious. "What are you doing? What was that?"

He made a clumsy grab for the object, but Eames grabbed his wrist with lightning speed. "I don't think so, love," he said softly. There was warning in his tone. "It's just a recorder, to decipher your answers more thoroughly later."

"Are you even drunk?"

Eames shrugged, releasing Arthur's wrist. "I've had a few drinks, but you drank most of the bottle yourself."

"I did?" He blinked.

"If it's any consolation, tomorrow would have been terrible for you anyway."

"No," Arthur replied after thinking a moment. "It's not."

Eames gave him an apologetic look and grasped his shoulder. "We'll get through it. Now, tell me everything you know about compound #1084." He shifted.

"Uh…" Arthur exhaled, blinking rapidly. "It has more elements than most, so it would need to be developed in a large facility. One that has access to an unlimited supply of chemicals."

"You mean like a pharmaceutical company?"

Arthur yawned. His eyes drifted shut. "I suppose so. Any sizeable lab."

"Would it need a front, then?"

"Of course."

"Did Yusuf ever tell you where the compound was being developed?"

"No," Arthur sighed. "But... I think it's somewhere in the city."

"What makes you think that?"

"He's had access... to a steady supply since we began working together." The room began to spin. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. It was kind of nice, actually. "And he would need to make adjustments to the compound... as I helped him perfect it..." His head slumped to the side.

"Arthur?" A hand lightly shook his shoulder. "Arthur, love. Stay with me, all right?"

The words sounded slow, as if they were being spoken underwater. This might have true, given that Arthur felt as though he was sinking. Darkness welcomed him like a warm blanket.

Somewhere beyond the oblivion surrounding him, he heard a defeated sigh and then a _click_. The cushion beside him shifted as Eames stood.

"We need to stop meeting like this," the man muttered.

Arthur felt arms force their way behind his back and under his legs. Then the couch fell away. In the back of his mind, he knew Eames was carrying him to bed and that he should be irritated. But he was too tired. And the man needed somewhere to sleep. The couch was small enough without two grown men sharing it.

There was breath on his face as he was lowered into bed. The sheets were slightly cool. Hands loosened his shirt, freeing the top buttons. Then a feather-light comforter fell over him.

He heard his closet door opening and distantly wondered why, but then it dawned on him that Eames was looking for a blanket. There was a thick one for winter nights on his safe. His safe. Damn. He should have known Eames would find it sooner or later. Sure enough, there was a soft exclamation. He could _feel _Eames staring at him.

It wasn't a large safe. And it wouldn't take an experienced thief long to break into.

As Arthur surrendered to the fog, he was disturbed every so often by strange sounds.

Metal tapping metal.

A spinning tumbler.

Soft cursing.

And the door of his safe opening.


	4. Withdrawals

_Disclaimer: I own no part of Inception. This is all in good fun. _

_For those of you who don't mind listening to *soft* background music as you read something a second time, I've found the Inception soundtrack _One Simple Idea _to compliment the first two segments of this chapter quite well. Open a new window and search the track on YouTube to listen to it as you read if you desire._

* * *

It was dark. Too dark.

Arthur stumbled out of bed and fell to the floor. Breathing heavily, he crawled to the door. The room lengthened as he clawed his way up the wall. His hands were shaking. Perspiration dripped from his hairline and trailed down his back. As he opened the door and fell into the hallway, his heart began to race. The walls around him were distorted, shifting in ways that defied gravity.

He raised an arm to protect himself from the wall looming over him. Shadows reached for him from every corner. Their claws grabbed his pants, the darkness crawling up his legs. It petrified him until he could no longer move below his waist. He could only pull himself along by his arms.

He made for the living room, planning to open the door and escape. If he could just make it to the door, the shadows wouldn't follow him. The friction of his hands on the hardwood floor provided the grip he needed. It felt as if the muscles in his arms and legs were on fire. Everything hurt.

There was something in his eyes. They were burning, watering. He couldn't reach the door if he couldn't see. The shadows would consume him, and he would be frozen, helpless. He clawed at his eyes stop them from burning. A fingernail snagged on the soft flesh of his right eyelid. Blood from the cut blinded him further, but he was closer now, nearly there. Just as he reached the end of the hallway, it lengthened. The more he pulled himself along, the longer it became. He would never make it to the door.

He wanted to stop and rest. His breathing was harsh. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins. If he could just… if he could just slow his heart down, he could escape the darkness.

Arthur curled into a ball and grabbed his dress shirt in two fists, ripping it open. Buttons flew everywhere. He yanked down the neckline of his undershirt and pressed a palm to his chest. The skin was damp, but if he pressed down hard enough, he could catch his breath. The nails of his hand dug into his skin. It burned. But he could breath now. He could-

Arthur jerked back as the room lit up. His back hit the wall and he covered his face with an arm. A new horror spread through him when he realized the shadow cast over his face and what it meant. He could no longer run from the shadows. They were a part of him, a part of who he was on the floor-

"Arthur? It's okay. You're okay." The voice was cautious, speaking to him as if he were a child. But he would never be innocent again. He was only made up of shadows and darkness now. Darkness that caused pain and suffering to those he touched. He stayed very still, hoping to blend into the floor unnoticed. But his hands, his _damn _hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"Arthur, darling? Can you hear me?"

For the briefest moment, he forgot to remain still and whipped his head back and forth. His eyes were still burning. Tears mixed with the blood and perspiration on his face.

Footsteps approached him. He curled even further into himself for protection. Not to protect himself, but to protect whoever was approaching him. They had no idea what kind of darkness he possessed. He could kill them.

He heard them kneel at his side with a _creak _of the floorboards. They didn't know. He had to warn them before they came any closer. Speaking seemed impossible in his terrified state. Because he _was _terrified. Terrified for them.

"Don't come any closer," he warned in a low voice.

"All right," the voice answered soothingly. "How about I back up a little, hmm? There, see. Plenty of room." Pause. "Do you know who I am, Arthur?"

Too many questions. They were asking too many questions, and it was difficult for him to focus and remember and talk and be mindful of the other shadows all at the same time… it was too overwhelming. He couldn't handle it. Couldn't do it.

He began knocking his head against the floor. Not too hard. Just hard enough to focus on the pain and nothing else. The shaking in his hands began to spread to his arms and legs. But that was okay. As long as he could focus on the pain and avoid hurting anyone with his darkness.

"Arthur, listen to me," the voice was sharper than before, commanding. "I need you to keep your head still. Now."

He desperately wanted to listen to the voice. It was confident and in control, the way he'd been before darkness had possessed him. But if he stilled and lost focus, his thoughts would race and race and race… he'd have no control over the darkness within him.

"Arthur," the voice warned. "Arthur!"

Then a hand was between his head and the floor.

"No!" he barked, springing back and hitting his shoulder against the wall. "Don't touch me! Get away from me!"

He tried to get away, but his legs were still frozen and he fell. An arm reached out to help him. He yelled and tried to run away once more, stumbling and falling across the living room to the door. If he could make it outside, everyone would be safe. He could-

Someone caught the front of his ankle while twisting his right arm behind him. He hit the ground hard, cracking his chin against the floor. He tasted blood and realized he'd bit his tongue. He could only lay there for a moment, dazed. The grip on his wrist loosened and concerned eyes came into view.

It was then he remembered - he was trying to protect others from himself. There was a weight on his back that prevented him from moving. He realized with horror that darkness was consuming someone else.

"No!" He began thrashing in his panic, wanting to save whoever was suffering the same fate. "No, no, no!"

"Arthur, listen to me-"

The commanding voice was back, but it was far too close to be safe from him. He struggled harder, gritting his teeth in pain as the grip on his wrist tightened. His limbs were shaking uncontrollably now, the muscles spasming of their own accord.

"Bloody hell," said the voice, frustration evident in its tone. Then a rag clamped over Arthur's nose and mouth. He jerked his head one way, then another, but the rag moved with him. "Hey, hey…" the voice was gentle now. "Don't fight it, love. It's okay. You're going to be fine."

He wanted to tell the voice to not touch him, but a fog had covered his mind. His limbs stopped shaking and his head slumped to the floor. He was relieved to feel his heart slow as his eyes fluttered closed. The weight shifted off of him. His last thought before he drifted to sleep was that the voice might be right. The shadows wouldn't consume him now. He would be fine.

* * *

Eames closed Arthur's bedroom door and leaned against it. He exhaled. This might prove to be more difficult than he thought. Apparently the generous amount of whiskey had reacted with the lack of the compound to create psychosis. Guilt gnawed at him for allowing Arthur to drink so heavily, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

He straightened and returned to the living room. The table was still covered with everything he'd found in Arthur's safe. Including an open bottle of chloroform, among others.

Eames grabbed his button-up shirt and threw it on, not bothering with the buttons. He sat on the couch and scanned the files he'd organized into piles. A glance at his watch revealed it to be only four in the morning.

Flashes of Arthur on the floor haunted him. There he was, curled up and desperate. Then terrified of something only he could see. It became clear that he wouldn't calm down on his own. Eames had dampened a handkerchief as Arthur struggled to reach the door, taking him down before he could leave the apartment. He hadn't wanted to use the chloroform. But there hadn't been much choice. If Yusuf truly understood how addictive his compound was, his security would be watching the hospitals. Eames couldn't allow Arthur to run through the streets in his current condition.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, scanning the pages in front of him. They were highly confidential, but that didn't mean they were useful. Most of them were detailed background checks on past subjects. Everything you'd expect a Point Man to research, right down to the last conceivable detail.

Eames grabbed another folder and flipped it open.

Ariadne.

"Conducting research on a love interest," he muttered. "Oh, darling, I expected so much more from you."

He stopped. There was another file behind Ariadne's.

It was his.

The file detailed his work for the last ten years, including his contacts, payments, military background, everything. He flipped through the pages in shock, recognizing the names of people and places he thought he'd buried with the past. Ten years of his life neatly organized in a yellow manila folder.

Shaking off the feeling that his privacy had been violated, Eames reminded himself that he should have known Arthur would research those he worked with. It was what he did.

In fact- Eames flipped through the files further. Saito. Cobb. Several others he didn't recognize.

Yusuf.

The file contained a long list of previous addresses, possible chemical suppliers, and a sprinkling of jobs outside his base in Mombasa. Scanning the list, Eames noticed that he'd worked for one man twice before. It was better than nothing.

He reached for his phone.

* * *

Arthur felt nauseous before he opened his eyes. His mouth was painfully dry and his tongue felt swollen. Though he wanted to sink into nothingness, his body wouldn't allow it. His heart was pounding too fast to allow him to rest.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The dim light announced early morning. He sat up in bed with the cautious movements of a man twice his age.

He was too weak to shower, but a glance at his undershirt revealed it to be dirty and wrinkled. Wait a minute… where was his dress shirt? He looked around as he stood, but it was nowhere to be found. Interesting. Opening his closet, he grabbed another undershirt and button-up. It wasn't a day for a tie or vest, that much was certain, but that didn't mean he needed to dress like a slob.

He sat on the end of the bed and pulled the dirty shirt over his head, tossing it in the corner. The sudden movement made his stomach lurch. He stumbled to the bathroom down the hall, bending over the toilet as his stomach expelled its contents. Gripping the sides of the bowl for support, he tried to take three deep breaths. In, and out. In… he retched again. And out. At least he had the rhythm down.

"Are you all right, darling?" Eames stood by the bathroom door.

"Dammit, Eames, get out of here," Arthur snapped between breaths. He reached up to flush the toilet as the nausea dissipated.

"You know my name, then."

Lowering himself to sit on the edge of the tub, Arthur wondered if he looked as pale as he felt. "Why wouldn't I know your name?"

"So you don't remember what happened this morning?"

"It's early, Eames," Arthur covered his face, which was damp with sweat. "What are you getting at?"

"I'm afraid you had something of an episode this morning. Didn't know who I was. Didn't seem to know where you were." Eames leaned against the doorframe.

"Sorry." Arthur's ears burned. He stood to rinse his mouth in the sink. "I can't promise it won't happen again, but I'll try to control it. Did I hurt you?"

"Frankly, love, you hurt yourself. Take a look."

Arthur only glanced in the mirror before brushing past Eames. He _felt _what he'd done. He didn't need to look at it. As he was about to enter his room, he stopped and turned.

"Was I hallucinating?"

"Difficult to say. You were frightened enough to lose touch with reality."

Arthur wracked his brain, trying to remember anything about the episode. Unfortunately, being frightened was one of the few things he remembered. And the darkness.

"Hallucinogens aren't easy to come by," he muttered to himself. "Were there any chemicals in the formula that would cause a severe reaction when mixed with alcohol?"

"I'm a Forger, love, not a bloody chemist."

Arthur stared at him.

He shifted. "The lab technicians detected several codeine-based drugs in the formula."

"He would need a supplier," Arthur said. "There are only two in the city." He entered the bedroom and sat on the bed, pulling a clean shirt over his head.

"Even if that were true, you're in no condition to leave the apartment. We can't storm the place on a whim anyway. Just because they supply the chemicals doesn't mean they know Yusuf's whereabouts."

Arthur sighed. Eames was voicing everything the logical part of his brain was thinking. On every job he'd accepted, success or failure depended on the details. The idea of walking in on a supplier without first knowing the building layout and having a plan was foolhardy. There was only one reason it crossed his mind at all.

He was scared.

Time was not on their side. In the time it took him to detoxed, Yusuf could disappear into the underground. Not only that, but detoxing with little to no knowledge about handling the withdrawal symptoms could be a fatal mistake.

"I've phoned in a favor." Eames interrupted his thoughts. "If they find anything of use, they'll let us know. By then, we should be able to take it from there."

"Eames…" he paused. "I appreciate everything you're doing."

"Anytime, love. Pancakes?"

"Whatever tastes best coming back up."

"No problem. Anything else?"

"Yeah. Leave so I can finish getting dressed."

* * *

Arthur didn't have any pancakes that morning.

Or the next.

He didn't have much of anything, although Eames insisted he drink water. It always came back up. Between regular trips to the bathroom and violent muscle spasms, Arthur became weaker as the hours dragged on. He simply didn't have the strength to go on like this.

By the second afternoon, Eames was struggling to keep his worry in check. Arthur couldn't leave his bed. He spent a great deal of time sleeping, during which Eames quietly took his vitals every hour and further investigated Yusuf. He was on the verge of a breakthrough when he heard the dull thump of a body hitting the floorboards.

Dropping his pen, Eames rose from the couch and hurried to the back room. The first thing he saw when he rounded the corner was Arthur sprawled on the floor and looking none too happy about it. Clad only in black sweats and a white shirt, his chest heaved and his lips were trembling.

"Arthur, what's wrong?" Eames knelt beside him, automatically checking his pulse. It was racing.

"Wrong?" Arthur slurred. "I've never felt better."

Pulling out the penlight, Eames checked his pupils. "Can you tell me what day it is?"

Arthur was silent. He only stared at the floor, struggling to catch his breath. The way his head weaved, Eames guessed him to be dizzy or seeing double. "Nothing," he finally spoke. "Nothing is wrong. I've never felt- I just need to use the bathroom."

"Arthur, look at me." Eames cradled the man's face. "The date, love. Can you tell me the date?"

"Date? Yeah… we went on a date once. Italian. Nothing too fancy…"

Eames gave up and grabbed Arthur's arm. There would be no straight answer. He needed fluids and nutrients in his system to be coherent.

Eames dragged Arthur to his feet and began shuffling to the bathroom. Arthur didn't just lean on him; he hung there, legs limp and head lolling against his shoulder.

"Stay with me," Eames breathed. "At least until we can take care of things here."

They entered the bathroom.

"Here we are." He tightened his grip on Arthur's waist as they approached the toilet. "Think you can manage?" Pause. "Arthur!"

The man's head jerked up, nearly catching Eames in the nose. "Hmm?"

"I have a soft spot for you, darling, but we aren't that close. Can you manage on your own? Not looking, go on."

He chose to stare at a spot on the far wall. Thankfully, he felt movement beside him and the unmistakable sound of- well, relief.

He cleared his throat. This was awkward. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. _Seen any good movies lately? _didn't seem appropriate.

So he waited.

"Finished?" he asked when all had gone quiet.

Arthur murmured in response, but it was good enough for Eames. He glanced down to make sure everything was stowed away before shuffling back to the room.

"Here we are," he lowered Arthur onto the bed. "Safe and sound." The man flopped over onto the covers, but a pull of his shoulders and a push on his legs later, he was right where he needed to be.

"I've been thinking," Arthur mumbled as Eames tucked the sheets around him and sat on the edge of the bed. "Maybe we were premature about this. Maybe this isn't something we can do all at once-"

"Everything is fine, Arthur. We're handling this together. Everything is going to be all right," Eames tried to soothe him. He wanted the compound. Probably more than he'd ever wanted anything. But Eames wouldn't give in. So it would be better for both of them if he saved his breath.

"Have some water." He grabbed the glass from the bedside table and motioned for Arthur to lift his head.

"No." He turned his head away. "No water. No pills."

Eames took a deep breath and calmly returned the glass to the table. "Why must you make things so difficult? You need to keep your strength up."

"_Dying_, Eames." Arthur weakly grabbed a fistful of Eames' shirt, his hand trembling. "Don't care about _strength_."

"Don't be silly." He gently pried Arthur's fist open. It worried him how hot the skin was to the touch, but he kept his expression serene and comforting. "Try to rest. I'll be just down the hall if you need anything."

As he was leaving, he heard Arthur mutter, "I need my gun."

* * *

Eames smoothed back his hair in the living room. This wasn't working. Arthur was dehydrated, exhausted, and only semi-coconscious. He could die in the next 24 hours unless he ingested some fluids and got some sleep. Now he was feverish as well. He could have another episode of psychosis at any moment.

To top it all off, Eames hadn't slept soundly since he left Mombasa. He'd been wearing the same clothes for nearly three days. And he didn't know how much longer he could watch Arthur suffer.

They were in bad shape.

Eames picked up his phone. He needed someone here while he retrieved IV fluids and medication from the local hospital. As much as he hated to admit, he also needed to retrieve the PASIV Device in the event that the compound killing Arthur could also save his life.

It had to be someone they could trust. Someone in the area.

He exhaled before dialing and held the phone up to his ear. "Ariadne? It's Eames." Pause. "Not so wonderful, darling. I'm with Arthur at the moment. We need your help."


	5. Complications

_Disclaimer: I own no part of Inception. This is all in good fun._

* * *

Arthur heard a voice. It was the softest, most angelic voice in the world. Sometimes it sang to him and sometimes it whispered over him. He'd heard the voice somewhere before, but he couldn't place it. Though he wanted to open his eyes to see who it was, he didn't have the strength. He could only drift in and out of consciousness knowing that the angel would be waiting for him when he neared the surface.

"Arthur," the angel softly spoke. "What have you done to yourself?"

Her voice cracked.

Don't cry, he wanted to tell her. Angels aren't supposed to cry.

There was a moist towel caressing his face, his neck, and his chest. It was too cold to be pleasant, making him shiver. Even his teeth chattered. The only comfort he found was the rhythmic shushing of the angel. Whenever he heard it, his muscles relaxed and he surrendered to sleep.

He was able to open his eyes once. But they didn't focus for him. Sunlight glared from behind the blinds, shining through the cracks in beams of rainbow and gold. The light hurt his eyes. He turned his head to see a pair of amber eyes smiling down at him.

"There you are," the angel spoke. "How are you feeling?"

Arthur felt himself drifting. He found himself moving farther away, although he wanted to stay with the angel, wanted to speak to her. His eyes closed against his will, and he felt a cool hand cover his forehead.

"Stay with us," the angel whispered. "Stay with us."

* * *

When Arthur woke, the sun had moved. It shone through a different crack in the blinds. Not directly in his eyes, but onto his pillow.

The angel was gone.

Fighting the haze of sleep, he looked around for her. Where had she gone?

There was a fog drifting in the room. It blurred fine lines and anything beyond his direct line of sight.

Arthur reached into his pocket for his totem, but he was only wearing his boxers.

His heart began to pound harder. Where was his totem? He tried to remember the last time he had it… nothing. Memories evaded him, just beyond his reach.

He sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. Black spots danced in his vision.

The darkness.

Arthur jerked back to escape the spots. They disappeared, leaving him in an anxious cold sweat. He fell over on the bed. Dizziness made the room spin and spin… just like it had when he'd been dreaming with Eames. A spot behind his ear throbbed, making him wonder if it was a new pain or residual pain. He sat upright again, swallowing against the ache in his throat.

There was only one sure way to determine if he was dreaming. Where was his totem? Where-

There was a gun on the bedside table.

Arthur slowly picked it up and turned it over in his hands in confusion. It was heavier than a real gun should be. And the room was foggier than a room should be. And his totem was missing.

A dream.

There was a roar of water from within the wall beside him. He stood and stumbled to the far wall, determined not to be caught off guard by any hostile projections. Trying to hold the gun steady and silence his breathing, he froze. Beads of sweat ran down his back. The sun seemed to shine even more brightly, making him close his eyes.

More light meant more shadows. There had to be a way to hide from the shadows.

The bedroom door swung open and he stilled in anticipation. A girl entered the room.

Arthur moved fast, wrapping his left arm around her neck before she could turned around. She shrieked in surprise, her hands coming up to loosen his iron grip. Her hands were too small to wrap around his forearm. He could feel her swallow against his arm in attempt to breathe.

"Arthur," she choked out. "Arthur, it's me, Ariadne. Let me go."

Every muscle in his body tensed. He spun them around to see if anyone else would come through the door. Thoughts were racing through his mind.

"Where's my totem?" he snapped. "Who are you, really?"

He pushed her away, but didn't release her arm. She faced him in the same outfit he'd seen her wear dozens of times. His favorite outfit. Arthur's gaze moved to her face, his glare demanding answers as he trained the gun on her heart.

The frightened look in her eyes almost undid him. He forced himself to be removed, to not be sucked into the dream by some projection. Ariadne hadn't spoken to him since they'd had dinner. There was no way she was really in his apartment.

"Arthur-"

"My totem," he barked. Don't get distracted.

"I… I don't know." Her voice wavered as he released her arm. The gun was growing heavier and he needed both hands to hold it up.

"Stay there," he snapped as he backed away. He glanced on the floor around the nightstand and opened the single drawer. No red die.

"You," he spoke to Ariadne, beginning to breath hard. "Look in the bed. Under the sheets. _Don't_ touch it if you see it."

She nodded, warily moving to the bed and tossing back the sheets. He could tell it made her uncomfortable to look away from the gun, as if staring at it would keep it from going off. When she didn't find his totem in the bed, she looked behind and under it as well. By the time she turned back to him, desperate tears had filled her eyes. She shook her head.

Arthur sighed and blinked hard against the sunlight that seemed to be growing stronger.

"Okay." He swallowed. "Come on." They had to move somewhere darker. He motioned her into the hallway with the gun and followed her into the living room.

His heart dropped.

The table was covered with his files and formulas. The ones he'd kept locked in his safe.

He turned to the projection of Ariadne.

"What is this?" He tried to shout, but could barely manage to raise his voice. "Who are you? Are you part of my subconscious or an extraction team?"

Ariadne raised her hands in a motion for him to calm down. "Arthur, I'm real. Everything is-"

"I want the truth!" He raised the gun again. The muscles in his arms burned.

"I'm part of your subconscious," she breathlessly answered.

Arthur nervously licked his lips. She could be lying. His eyes darted from the window to the hallway to the door. Then back to her. He rubbed his eyes with his left hand.

"Okay," he finally said. "What did you order when we went out for Italian?"

"W-what?" A stutter crept into her voice.

He exhaled and tried to steady his breathing. It was so hot. "When we had dinner together. What did you order?"

She paused for a moment. "How could I possibly remem-"

"You had chicken pesto and Barolo!" he shouted, the effort behind it making him dizzy. "My subconscious would have remembered!"

Arthur took an unsteady step forward. He motioned to the files on the table with the gun and then trained it on her. "You're a forger. And you have five seconds to tell me what you want and who you're working for."

* * *

Eames struggled to push the elevator button while juggling a bag of hospital supplies, some things he'd picked up from the store, and the silver briefcase. He finally settled for giving the button a swift kick.

"Help you out there, son?" he heard as he entered the elevator. It was the old man in the Greek fisherman's hat who lived on Arthur's floor.

"Thanks very much." He nodded as the man pushed the button. The weight of the bags cut into his hands.

"Bloody hell," he muttered.

"Haven't see you for a couple days," the old man said pointedly. He wiped his nose.

"Just visiting, I'm afraid."

"With Arthur, eh?"

Eames looked up.

"Yeah," the old man went on. "Saw you two just the other day. Long night on the town, eh?"

"You know Arthur, do you?" Eames perked up. "Hard to believe he's the Mr. Rogers type."

"Well, I just moved in about a month ago. The old fishing grounds were drying up."

"Understandable. Were you able to find work in the city?"

"As a matter of fact," the old man moved to block the elevator panel. "I was."

The elevator lurched to a stop and Eames didn't have time to drop the bags before a hard blow was delivered to his throat. He collapsed against the elevator wall, coughing, choking, trying to breathe. His wrists slipped from the bags before he gripped his throat, trying to assess the damage and shake off his shock.

The old man casually bent over him, searching him for a gun and then straightening his jacket.

"You know, Mr. Eames," he started. "Your presence has presented quite an inconvenience for those who wish to buy compound #1084 upon its completion." His tone suggested he was talking about the weather. "I'm sure you've witnessed the promising withdrawal symptoms by now."

Eames struggled to speak, but he only managed to gurgle a few syllables.

The old man held up an impatient hand. "Let me put it simply, Mr. Eames. Your friend is weak. He is vulnerable. Stop investigating the compound and go back to your employer with what you have. Otherwise, I won't be the only unhappy buyer who comes looking for you-"

Eames jerked his head forward, catching the old man in the forehead. Anger was surging through him in a way he'd seldom felt before. As the old man fell back, Eames got to his feet and went in for another strike. The man blocked it, his own fist connecting with Eames' jaw.

Eames fell against the elevator wall, but managed to see the gleam of a knife as the man lunged forward. He stepped to the side just in time, coming behind the man to put him in a choke hold with one arm and grab the knife-wielding hand with the other. The old man was unbelievably strong – he raised his legs and pushed off the wall to slam Eames against the elevator panel. The stop lever gave way behind him and the elevator began moving again.

Eames only loosened his grip for a second, but it was enough. The old man spun around and slashed the knife across his chest. It would have been his throat if the elevator hadn't abruptly lurched as it reached Arthur's floor. The man regained his balance and leapt though the open elevator doors, disappearing down the hall. Eames distantly heard the stairwell door being shoved open.

He was breathing hard as he clamped a hand over the gash in his chest.

What the hell had just happened?

He pulled the emergency lever to keep the elevator in place before swallowing hard and grabbing the bags and briefcase. He silently took note of his injuries as he did so. Throat. Ice to stop the swelling. Jaw. Unbroken. Chest laceration. Stitches, more than likely. Nothing immediately life threatening, though things could quickly go south if he didn't tend to his injuries in the next hour.

Years of military training and experience had conditioned him to think through his pain, to remove himself from it to survive. Eames called on this strength as he stood and made his way to Arthur's door. He could feel blood blossoming across his shirt front and had to breathe slowly, but he had more immediate threats to worry about.

If one buyer knew he'd interfered with Yusuf's development of the new compound and knew where he was staying, other buyers might know too. The old man had escaped. That meant they had to move. They had to go somewhere unexpected and potentially far away. Just until Arthur was back on his feet. Then they could track Yusuf down and stop him from mass producing the compound.

If it wasn't already too late.

Eames exhaled as he tapped on the door with his shoe.

There was silence and then he heard movement inside.

"Ariadne, open up, love," he called through the door. "You won't believe what just happened."

The door opened a crack and Ariadne peered out. "You wanna bet?"

She let the door swing open.

Eames found himself staring at Arthur, clad only in his boxers, pointing a Heckler & Koch P2000 semi-automatic pistol.


	6. On the Move

_Disclaimer: I own no part of Inception. This is all in good fun._

* * *

Eames stared down the barrel of his own pistol in shock.

"Ariadne?" His lips barely moved. "Would you mind explaining to me why Arthur's holding the pistol I left for you?"

His gaze never wavered. The way Arthur was shaking, Eames counted himself lucky to still be standing.

"I went to the bathroom for just a second-"

"Quiet," Arthur croaked. His face was flushed and sweaty. "Eames, are you- I mean, are you really… what are you?"

Eames stepped inside the apartment and slowly set the bags down on the floor. He saw Arthur's gaze flicker to the silver briefcase.

As he nudged the door shut, Ariadne gasped.

"You're hurt."

"Now now, love."

Arthur seemed to notice too. His breathing picked up and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Eames inwardly swore as the pistol brushed Arthur's temple. This had to stop. Now.

"What's the matter, darling?" Eames slowly walked to the couch and sat down. His chest was throbbing, but the pain wasn't too bad. As long as he stayed calm, he could slow the blood loss.

"She's- she's a forger," Arthur pointed at Ariadne with the gun. "I know I'm dreaming, dammit, and I want to know what she's trying to extract and if you're real."

Eames held up his hands. "Let's not get dramatic, love. This isn't a dream. Did you roll your totem?"

Arthur looked desperate. "I couldn't find it. We looked."

"In the pocket of your sweatpants?"

The way Arthur froze, Eames realized he hadn't thought of that. It was understandable. The man had been unconscious when he took them. Looking back, he realized it would have been smart to place the totem on the nightstand or something. So it would be there when Arthur woke up. But he'd only been concerned with getting Arthur's fever down. And it would have taken a great deal of imagination to move the die without touching it or rolling it in any way.

Arthur jerked his chin in the direction of the bedroom. "Get it."

"He's hurt," Ariadne protested. "I can-"

"You stay here," Arthur snapped.

Eames shot Ariadne a look that plainly told her to make herself invisible. Her presence was aggravating Arthur as it was, without drawing further attention to herself.

He carefully rose from the couch and walked down the hall. It was simple, he told himself. Arthur was nothing if not logical and detail-oriented. He would roll his totem, feel the weight of it in his hand, and realize this was reality. As Eames grabbed the sweatpants he'd tossed onto the bedroom floor, he fought off the doubts running through his mind. Arthur was normally logical because Arthur wasn't normally detoxing.

Before his thoughts could dishearten his further, Eames heard a _thump _on the floorboards and had the terrible thought that Arthur had shot Ariadne. But there hadn't been a gunshot.

He hurried into the living room to see Arthur slumped against the table, Ariadne kneeling by his side. She gently took the pistol from his fingers and cupped his face with one hand.

"Get away from me," he mumbled, lolling his head away from her.

Eames kneeled beside them and held out the sweatpants to Arthur. "Here you are, love."

Obviously growing weaker by the second, Arthur dug his hand into the pocket and searched for the die. Eames could tell the moment he found it from the relieved expression that came over his face. He pulled it out and rolled it out of their sight. As he clutched it in his hand again, he faced them with look of horror.

"Eames, Ariadne, I'm so sorry," he breathed. "I thought-"

"We know," Eames clasped his bony shoulder. "We know."

He leaned forward to scoop Arthur into his arms. One crisis had been averted, but they had another on their heels. He grimaced at how hot Arthur's core was to the touch. As he rose, he spoke to Ariadne.

"Grab your things and be ready to head downstairs. We're leaving."

Carrying Arthur to the back room, Eames lowered him onto the bed.

He walked to the dresser. "Wake up, love. I need you to help me out here, okay? Put these on."

Pulling a clean pair of boxers from the top drawer, Eames tossed them towards the bed. They landed on Arthur's stomach. Eames strode for the closet and yanked open the door, grabbing the first suit he could find. It was vital for them to blend in. Sweatpants ten sizes too big and a white t-shirt drenched in sweat weren't going to cut it.

When Eames turned back to the bed, Arthur had _mostly _managed to slide the clean boxers on. His dignity was covered, at any rate.

"Bloody hell, we need to hurry." Eames gave the boxers a swift push that bordered on overzealous and gently grasped Arthur's shoulders to help him into an upright position.

"What's the plan?" he mumbled as Eames began to slide his pants on.

"Still with me, are you? Good." He allowed Arthur to finish pulling up the pants while he draped the dress shirt around his shoulders.

"You're bleeding."

"Always concerned with details."

"Right there." In his feverish state, Arthur reached out to touch the gash.

Eames caught his wrist and redirected it into the sleeve, "Hands to yourself, darling. Would be a shame to stain such an immaculate dress shirt, hmm?"

"Why are you bleeding?"

"Your Greek neighbor down the hall gave me a smashing welcome party."

"The fisherman?" Arthur wrinkled his eyebrows as Eames buttoned the shirt.

"Seems he moved in to keep an eye on what he termed _promising _dedication to the compound."

"Asshole."

"Beg your pardon? I do have a tie around your neck." Eames pointedly knotted it.

"Not you." Arthur exhaled, as if talking was wearing him out.

"Save your energy. You're going to need it."

They managed to finish dressing Arthur in the vest and jacket in record time. Ariadne came in as Eames was slipping on his dress shoes and lacing them up.

"Now that's the Arthur I remember. But not without the finishing touch." She gave him a warm smile and tossed him some hair gel. "I also grabbed some medicine that might help break your fever."

Arthur wouldn't meet her eyes as he slicked back his hair with practiced ease. He was probably still ashamed of holding her at gunpoint.

"Pack it?" Eames asked her.

"Along with the files."

"Let's move. Grab the bags, will you, darling?"

"I'll grab what I can. We have two duffels and the briefcase."

"Lovely." Eames turned to Arthur, who looked as ready to run as a newborn colt. He sat down beside him and grabbed his wrist to place it across his shoulders. The movement widened the gash and he gasped in pain.

"You gonna make it?" Arthur mumbled.

Eames shot him a glance as they rose. "Look who's talking."

Nausea had begun to set in, but he wasn't going to admit that to Arthur. One of them had to be alert in case another buyer came looking for trouble. His heart rate was slightly elevated, increasing blood loss, but that should remedy itself as soon as they were safely in a cab.

He exhaled through his teeth as they began the long journey downstairs. Arthur wasn't able to help much. Eames cracked a smile. As usual. Ariadne hauled one duffel and the briefcase, while he carried the other. It helped to even his step, hanging from one shoulder while Arthur hung from the other. The hallways and elevator were empty.

As they stepped outside, they drew considerably more attention.

"Ariadne, hail a cab, will you?" By the time the words were out, she had already stepped up to the curb and flagged one down. The Native Indian driver looked taken aback when she climbed into the front seat and Eames pushed Arthur into the back.

"Hospital?"

Eames looked down and realized he would have done well to change his bloodied shirt.

"Uh, no." He stripped off his jacket. "Fourth and Jefferson, and hurry, please."

He unbuttoned his shirt. The buttons were sticky with blood. He grunted as he pulled his arms from the sleeves. Ariadne turned in her seat to check on Arthur where he leaned against the door.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"I have a marvelous contact about fifteen minutes away. Andre." Eames put the shirt on backwards and reached for his jacket. Before he'd begun to button it, blood had already seeped through his shirt where the gash was deepest. Perfect.

"How do we know we aren't being followed?"

"We don't." He took a deep breath. "But if we have a tail, we can lose them when Andre gives us a car. He runs something of a halfway point between safe houses."

"Sounds like a dangerous job."

"He's handsomely paid for it."

"What if he were captured? Wouldn't his subconscious hold the key to our location? Not to mention the locations of others who seek refuge?"

"He only provides transport," Eames snapped as another wave of nausea rolled through him. "He doesn't know any destination details and he doesn't care to. Now if you're through questioning me, darling, I need to call him so he's ready for us. The more time we spend without wheels under us, the longer we're at risk."

Ariadne raised an eyebrow as he dug his phone out of his pocket. He dialed a ten-digit number with trembling fingers.

A young kid answered the phone. "Toni's pizza!" Music from the band _Disturbed _blared in the background. What sounded like a jangling of pots and pans followed.

"Andre? Eames. We need a full package, darling. Fast. We're on our way now."

"_Dude_. I've got you covered. No other runs all day. We're still cleaning up from a _crazy _blood run yesterday. How 'bout you? You need medical before transport?"

Eames paused, trying to figure out how much time they had.

"Slow your roll, dude, I'll just order it up. How many injured?"

Eames sighed.

"Man, what kinda trouble you messin' with?" Andre asked. "Tell you what. You get here. We pull out all the stakes. You leave. Sound like a deal?"

A black haze began to take over the corners of Eames' vision. His adrenaline had run its course. The knowledge that they would be taken care of and everything would be okay was draining his strength.

Eames glanced over at Arthur. From the way he was slumped against the door, it looked as if he had already checked out.

"You might want to alert the muscle, Andre." He took a deep breath before continuing. "We have one man down and I'm fading fast."

"Will do, dude. Just get here."

* * *

Darkness. Then orange lights, flashing beyond his eyelids. Eames became aware of a flurry of muffled voices. A door handle popped and the wall beside him gave way. Hands caught him as he fell.

"Get him inside," ordered a hushed voice.

His head fell back as hands grabbed at his arms and legs. A light breeze tickled his face, but it wasn't enough to guard against the pain radiating through his chest.

"This one too," Eames distantly heard. "He's not responding at all…"

The words faded as the soft glow became a blinding light. A steel table rose up under him. The clanking of pots and pans sounded nearby.

"Alright, dude," Andre breathed beside him. "Let's see what you got for me."

Scissors cut away his jacket and then his shirt. If he'd had the strength, he would have groaned as the shirt was pulled away from the wound. As it was, he broke out in a cold sweat.

This was going to hurt like hell.


	7. Andre's Place

_Disclaimer: I own no part of Inception. This is all in good fun._

* * *

Eames tried to make a sound as Andre pulled the shredded jacket and shirt out from under him. The table felt like a slab of ice against his shoulder blades. His heart was pounding wildly, thundering in his ears. No matter how hard he tried, he was unable to move.

Andre rested a gloved palm on his chest. Probably inspecting the wound. Someone else picked up his left arm to wrap a thick rubber band around his bicep. Then they gently turned his arm and began palpating a vein. He felt the sting of a needle and heard the clinking of an IV bag being hung.

"Is it bad?" a woman asked. She removed the rubber band and Eames felt blood rush back to his hand.

"He'll live," Andre answered. "But you should tape that IV. It's bleeding too badly to wait for the pain killer to kick in. If he wakes up, he'll be thrashing."

"Should we get someone to hold him down?"

"Yeah. Dude," Andre called. "Get over here and hold his shoulders."

Footsteps approached the table and burly hands pressed down on either side of Eames' collar bone.

"Don't lean into my light, dude."

They eased up a little.

Eames tried to brace himself for the pain he knew was coming. He thought about when he'd been wounded in the military and how the medic had packed his gunshot wound to staunch the bleeding. He thought about the many times he'd died in dreams, sometimes without the mercy of a pistol. But most of all, he thought about Yusuf and everything he planned to do to the bastard when they caught up with him.

Unfortunately, his thoughts weren't enough to distract him from the alcohol washing over his chest.

White fire burned through him, emanating from the wound and radiating down his torso. He heard a sympathetic _hiss_ as the man holding his shoulders blew air through his teeth. Eames tried to tense, tried to move away from them all. Anything to stop the pain. But the only reaction his body allowed was a fresh sheen of sweat on his forehead.

What felt like a towel rubbed at his chest on either side of his wound. He wanted to tell whoever was drying him to let it be. Before he could, a needle pierced the edge of the wound and began stitching him up like a torn rag doll. His only saving grace was that the alcohol had numbed the wound to some extent. Instead of agony, the needle only delivered sharp pain after sharp pain.

The hard part was over.

"That's gotta hurt," said the man holding his shoulders.

"If he was conscious, yeah," Andre replied. "What's up with the other one? Taylor working on him?"

"He flatlined after they got him outta the cab. Trying to get him back now."

Eames' heart gave one ominous thud as a rush of adrenaline flooded his system. His eyes flew open. The fluorescent light above momentarily blinded him, but he didn't slow down. He bolted upright and tried to leap off the metal table.

Andre may have been just a kid, but he was lightning fast. His caught one of Eames' arms and drove him back down far enough for the heavily-muscled man to wrap an arm around his neck.

"We need more muscle in here!" Andre yelled.

Eames could only see a flash of the kid's bloodied gloves before he was staring at the ceiling, wrought with peeling paint and low steam pipes. He grunted with effort. The man behind him had abs like a brick wall, but Eames was desperate to reach Arthur before it was too late. Whoever Taylor was, his medical training had probably been in a back alley somewhere.

His foot lashed out in the struggle, overturning a tray of medical instruments. They clattered against the stone floor.

"Calm down, man," he distantly heard Andre say. "Just calm down."

Like hell. Eames whipped his head back, catching the man holding him in the nose. The arm around his neck fell away. He rolled off the table, scarcely aware of the IV stand crashing to the floor. The needle was ripped from him arm as he ran for the door. Before he could reach the hall, an arm from another man struck him in the chest like an iron bar.

Eames dropped to the floor as the man came through the doorway. His chest may have been on fire, but there was nothing to stop him from getting to his feet and making another break for the hall.

Except the man with the broken nose.

Eames felt a weight crash into his back before the man put him into a Full Nelson hold, forcing his head down so he couldn't whip it back again. Growling in frustration, Eames reached back and tried to gouge out the man's eyes. His stitches ripped when the wound stretched. The pain rendered him still for only a second, but it was enough. Feet pounded as more men came running. They grabbed his legs before he could try to flip the man behind him.

Shaking from adrenaline and pain, Eames kicked out against the men holding him. He was unable to break free as they shuffled to the table and forced him onto it. Light glared into his eyes and he felt rope being wound around his wrists and ankles. Each time he reared up, he caught a glimpse of how badly he was bleeding. But it didn't matter. Arthur surviving this ordeal like the stubborn bastard he was mattered.

"Get the Ativan," Andre snapped over their scuffling. "And get me a new tray. He lost too much blood."

A man threw himself across Eames' waist, effectively pinning him down. His bloody chest heaved with the effort of fighting them all. It was useless, but he had to try. Arthur needed him.

A syringe glistened before it was injected into his arm. A warmth began to spread through him and his struggles became less violent. Andre sighed as the men around him loosened their holds, eventually releasing him. His limbs felt baggy and useless.

"Arthur," he croaked.

"Calm down, dude," Andre gripped his arm and bent down. "I'm gonna stitch you up. It's all good."

If Andre thought Eames was too out of it by then to realize he'd avoided saying anything about Arthur, he was wrong. Even as Eames' eyes slipped closed and the voices around him muddled into nothingness, he felt a pang of dread for the fate of the fallen Point Man.

* * *

Arthur jerked, sucking air into his lungs.

"Got him," someone barked. "Steady rhythm."

"Hold it," another voice wearily answered. "Let's make sure it stays that way. Give him a minute."

The only sounds after that were those of Arthur struggling to breathe regularly.

"Come on, kid," a gruff voiced coaxed.

Arthur only focused on breathing. He didn't know where he was, how he came to be there, or who was surrounding him. His brain wasn't registering anything except a conscious thought to keep breathing. In, and out. In. And out.

Finally, the tension in the room seemed to melt away.

"That was close one," someone said. "Too close."

"Get the rest of these clothes off him," the gruff voice commanded. "And get that cooling blanket over here. Kid's so overheated, you could fry an egg on his damn forehead. What's his story anyway? He fight the devil in the flames of hell?"

"You know that's not our concern, Taylor," someone sternly answered. They began to cut away his pants.

"Well, maybe it ought to be," the old man answered. "For how often we're left cleaning up the mess, one can't help but wonder what kind of trouble these kids get into."

They pulled the clothing from under him and Arthur immediately began shivering. He moved his head to the side when they covered him with the cooling blanket.

"I think he's coming around," someone said.

"Get the girl," Taylor ordered. "Sounds like Eames kicked up a fuss in there. The last thing we need is a repeat performance from this kid."

Arthur struggled to remember what happened. If Eames had caused trouble, something had to be wrong. He went back to the last thing he remembered. They were leaving the apartment, fleeing from someone… had they been captured?

Arthur slowly opened his eyes. Oh, no. From the walls and ceiling, he guessed they were in someone's leaky basement. He tried to speak, but all that escaped was a syllable.

"Take it easy." A weathered face came into view. "You were just dead, you know."

Arthur tried to motion for him to take the blanket off.

"Arthur." He heard Ariadne's voice and then she was beside him. There were tears in her eyes, but she was holding it together. She brought her hand to his face, but he couldn't bring himself to lean into it. Whenever he stared at her, he could only remember how he'd treated her in the apartment. Worse than an object. Like an imposter. It was inexcusable.

"The compound," he whispered. "None of this would happened-"

"Arthur, you can't blame yourself."

"I'm sorry-" He was forced to stop talking when his heart hummed in his chest. He coughed once, twice.

"Arthur?" Ariadne sounded alarmed. She looked around for help.

Taylor swiftly stepped forward and moved back the cooling blanket. He brought a stethoscope to Arthur's chest and listened intently. A split second later, he yelled over his shoulder.

"The kid is going down again!"

Ariadne's nails dug into his shoulder as she searched his face for answers. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight, asking him something. But Arthur couldn't speak. He could only watch her through a haze as his heart continued to beat irregularly. It was the strangest feeling…

Running footsteps announced the arrival of several burly men and a nurse. A man grabbed Ariadne by the shoulders and tried to pull her away from Arthur.

She wouldn't let go of his hand.

She yelled something when the man's arm encircled her waist. As she was lifted off her feet, Arthur slid toward the edge of the table.

Another man stepped in and pried their hands apart. Arthur found it odd that he couldn't feel anything, especially when he saw the bloody crescent marks Ariadne's fingernails had left.

He distantly heard her screaming for him as she was carried away.

Men surrounded him. They moved with the efficiency of a team. One of them removed the cooling blanket while another wheeled a defibrillator closer to the table. Another attached new gel pads to his chest, pressing them firmly into place. The nurse was speaking to Taylor somewhere in the background before she appeared with two syringes clutched in her hand.

Her words were a blur as she began barking out orders.

Arthur's eyes slid closed. He was so tired. Hands tilted his head back and fingers pressed against his neck. His heart faltered once. Then twice. There was a high, continuous beep, someone shouting, and a massive jolt that sent him careening into oblivion.

* * *

Eames gradually came to. His head felt heavy, like it was sinking through the pillow. When he opened his eyes, he found himself in what Andre had termed the Recovery Room. Though it was really just a line of rickety old beds in a long corridor. At least he had a blanket.

"Welcome back, dude," a soft whisper greeted him.

Eames turned his head to see Andre slouching in a chair beside the bed, his arms crossed. He wore an expression that was simultaneously relieved and irritated. There was a stethoscope draped around his neck, but it looked remarkably out of place against his skateboarder shirt and torn jeans.

It felt like a weight was tied around his wrist as Eames reached up and gingerly felt the bandage taped to his bare chest.

"Don't touch that." Andre scooted closer and knocked his hand away. "It took two tries to sew you up, bro. I know you've been coming here a long time and all, but I'm not about to stitch you up again. You rip 'em, you skip 'em."

Eames blinked, trying to shake off the last of the drug.

"You with me, man?"

He blinked once more and nodded, mustering the courage to ask where Arthur was. If he had died…

"Good, 'cause there's a little spitfire here to see you. Won't stop bothering the guys with questions."

Ariadne came into view as Andre stood and left. Her eyes were red. Eames' heart gave a painful thump. She took a seat in Andre's chair and tried to give a weak smile.

It didn't work.

"Eames," she whispered, swallowing hard. "Arthur flatlined twice. He has a heartbeat now, but it's weak and irregular. They don't know if…" She trailed off and stared at the floor.

Eames took a deep breath. The last of the Ativan was wearing off, allowing him to think clearly.

They needed a new plan.

"Do we still have the PASIV Device, darling?" he asked in a low voice.

It didn't take Ariadne long to realize what he was getting at. "You want to put Arthur under? The compound is what's killing him in the first place."

"The _lack of _a compound, love," he gently corrected her. He struggled to sit up and she automatically helped him. The room spun when he was upright. He closed his eyes and tried to focus. "We didn't bother to lower the dosage before we cut him off completely."

"Reintroducing it now would cause him to relapse," she said firmly.

"If we don't, he could die."

Ariadne was silent as Eames stood. He steadied himself against the nearby wall.

"Stay here," Ariadne breathed. She disappeared beyond the crumbling archway into the hall.

He waited until she reappeared with the PASIV Device. She looked determined.

"Where is he?" Eames asked.

"Just a couple rooms down."

"Muscle?"

"No match for bullets," she said pointedly. "Arthur needs this. We don't need their approval." She took a pistol from beneath her sweater and checked the chamber.

Eames raised an eyebrow. "Easy there, darling. They did save his life."

"And now it's our turn."


	8. The Dream

_Disclaimer: I own no part of Inception. This is all in good fun._

* * *

Eames looked around for shirt, but Andre hadn't left one for him. Andre had a way of manipulating those he cared for. If he didn't want them leaving the room, he usually found a way to make it impossible. Or at least uncomfortable. It was cold.

"If we're going to do this, we need to move now," Ariadne spoke in a low voice. "They could be back at any moment."

"I'll take the pistol."

"I don't think so."

Without waiting for him to respond, she marched to the doorway and looked back as if to ask, _Are you coming? _

Eames knitted his eyebrows in concern as he grabbed the briefcase and hurried after her. If her affection for Arthur was rendering her reckless, he'd need to step in. The Ariadne he knew was logical, intelligent, and would easily see that military training outweighed dream sharing experience when it came to fighting.

The hall was empty when they peered around the corner. Eames put a hand on Ariadne's elbow to signal her to move. Low watt bulbs flickered as they made their way to Arthur's room.

Eames' breath caught in his throat when he saw Arthur laying on a slab. A thin blanket had been draped over him. If he hadn't been hooked up to a heart monitor, Eames might have thought he was dead. His skin was far too pale.

Wait a minute…

Eames felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Something wasn't right.

No guards.

No nurse.

No Taylor.

Arthur was in critical condition. Where was everyone?

There was shouting down the hall and the unmistakable sound of silenced gunshots.

Dammit.

Eames wasted no time striding to the table. He scooped Arthur up and lowered him to the floor, careful to mind his head. Then he stood and began pushing the table toward the door.

"Close it!" he barked.

Ariadne shut the heavy door, bolting it shut.

There was a _thud _as Eames wedged the table against the door. It wouldn't hold for long if someone was determined to break in.

"What's happening?" Ariadne asked.

"Nothing good." Eames knelt by Arthur's side with the briefcase and snapped it open. "Either we were tailed by Yusuf's men and they've decided to move in, or it's an entirely unrelated bout of trouble. My bet is on the former. Then again, I've never had much luck at the tables."

The shouting was getting closer.

Eames swabbed Arthur's inner arm and injected him with the needle. The smell of alcohol permeated the air. Ariadne knelt beside him and motioned for him to lay down. He did so slowly to avoid tearing his stitches. The floor was damp and grimy, but it would have to do. As she was securing the cuff around his wrist with shaking hands, Ariadne asked, "Why would Yusuf's men be after us?"

"Think, love. To document Arthur's withdrawals, to interrogate me about my employer. I'm sorry for dragging you into this."

"You didn't drag me into anything." She readied the compound. "I'll hold them off as long as I can. We only have a few minutes worth of compound. You'll have less than an hour down there."

"That's all I need." He closed his eyes.

"They're going to capture us."

Eames turned his head. There was fear in her eyes.

He flashed her a reassuring smile, hoping all doubt had left his expression. Cradling her chin between his thumb and forefinger, Eames nodded. "Yes, darling. But it's the easiest way to find Yusuf."

"Tell me you have a plan to escape."

Eames allowed his hand to drop as she prepared to press the button. "I'm making this up as I go along."

There was a soft _hiss_ before he sank into a world of dreams.

* * *

A city street.

Eames looked around.

Everything was either gray or dark in color. The buildings and streets made Andre's place look like the Hilton. Windows were broken, doors were ajar on bent hinges, and wide fissures climbed brick buildings. The streets were wrought with potholes and gravel. Dry leaves tumbled freely in the breeze, as there wasn't a car in sight.

Projections lined the sidewalks, some walking, some hunched over on the curbside. They were wearing black, their eyes large against sickly pale skin.

This couldn't be good.

Eames looked around for Arthur, but he was nowhere in sight.

"Excuse me," he said, approaching a young couple. "Have you seen Arthur? I need to find him."

The couple listlessly stared. They seemed to be looking right through him.

He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. Why didn't Ariadne give him control of the dream layout or control of the projections? It made no sense to make Arthur both the dreamer and the subject at this point. She must have panicked.

Eames sighed, letting the couple pass. He put his hands on his hips and looked around, trying to read the names of the buildings surrounding him. The names were faded and worn.

"_Pssst."_

Eames whipped his head around.

"_Pssst. _Over here."

A young girl peered out at him from an alley. Eames immediately recognized her from Arthur's previous dream. She'd been the one to help them in the elevator.

She giggled, beckoning him over. Unlike the rest of the projections, her skin was still glowing and her hair was a vibrant auburn. She looked liked she belonged in a park on a summer day.

Eames hurried over to her. He didn't have many options and time would run out without her help.

She disappeared into the alley and he was forced to break into a run to keep up. Feeling annoyed that she hadn't waited for him, he maneuvered his way after her. The alley turned this way and that, winding between buildings. Eames almost lost sight of the girl at several points, but her hair flowed, allowing him to catch a glimpse at each turn.

They finally emerged onto a deserted street. Eames recognized the outside of the warehouse.

Oh, Arthur. Always working.

Running footsteps made him aware that the girl was leaving. She ran into the alley without so much as a backward glance. Her skirts became dirty as she splashed through a puddle.

Eames stared after her curiously, wondering who she was and why she kept reappearing in Arthur's dreams. Though their current situation took precedence, he couldn't help but be intrigued. Arthur was always so guarded that any hint into his experiences was noteworthy.

Pushing his own interest aside, Eames walked to the warehouse door and peered in. Arthur was sitting at his desk. He looked up when Eames opened the door and approached.

"Something wrong with the idea?" He shuffled through a pile of files. The suit he was wearing was wrinkled, as though he hadn't left the warehouse in days. The desk lamp was also on, despite the daylight beyond the windows.

"Beg your pardon?" Eames took a seat on the corner of Arthur's desk, earning himself a glare.

"The basic Fischer idea, Eames. You said you'd be back if there was a problem." Arthur snatched at the files Eames was sitting on. "And get off my desk. I haven't finished my research on Browning and the debriefing is tomorrow."

Eames cracked a smile.

Arthur shot him another annoyed glance. "What?"

"Arthur, Arthur, Arthur." He gave a content sigh. "It's refreshing to see _you _again. Healthy. Working. Irritated. Just like old times."

Arthur looked guarded. "Are you drunk?"

Laughter escaped before Eames could stop it. He stood and clasped Arthur's shoulder.

At the physical contact, Arthur abruptly stood and whirled around. "What's wrong with you?" he snapped, tugging at his vest. "We're here to work. If you're finished detailing the idea, help Ariadne design the third level. It's your dream, after all."

He sat down in a huff and rolled his chair closer to his desk.

Eames gave a good-natured grin. It was good to see the old Arthur again, but they did have work to do. Work that hadn't been finished for almost a year.

Crossing his arms, Eames asked, "What would you say if I told you we were dreaming right now?"

"I'm busy."

"Come on," he coaxed. "Just roll your totem once. Can't be much harm in that, hmm?"

Arthur stared at the ceiling for a moment before dropping his papers and reaching into his pocket. He pulled out the die and pointedly waited to roll it until Eames wasn't looking. It clattered on the wood.

"Go help Ariadne."

Eames dropped his arms in confusion as Arthur put the die back in his pocket. "We're dreaming."

"Right."

"I'm being serious."

"Because you'd never mess with me for kicks."

A thought crossed Eames' mind, making him bring a palm to his forehead. The noise caught Arthur's attention. "Right. This is your dream. Your totem would roll your way. My mistake. Can you remember how you got here?"

"Yeah," Arthur sounded exasperated as he ran a hand over his hair. "I arrived early this… morning."

"Very convincing."

Arthur slowly rose from his desk. From his deliberate movements, it was clear that he couldn't remember the events of that morning. Understandable, since they never happened.

"What's going on, Eames?"

"Time is short. We can talk on the way." Eames clasped his hands together and strode for the door.

Once they were outside, Arthur looked lost. His eyes darted around as he took everything in. Only when Eames grasped his upper arm and pulled him along did his feet begin to move.

"Everything is so… bleak."

"It reflects our situation at the moment," Eames reported.

"Which is what?"

"Snap out of it, darling." It was Eames' turn to sound exasperated. "We finished the Fischer job almost a year ago, remember? We went our separate ways. You, unfortunately, chose to work with Yusuf after some time off and he addicted you to compound #1084. I shouldn't need to tell you this."

Arthur stopped walking. "The compound," he mumbled, his eyebrows knitting. "The comp-"

Without warning, he collapsed. Eames wasn't close enough to catch him before his head met the concrete.

"Damn," Eames cursed, kneeling beside Arthur and gently turning him over. There was a gash on his forehead that had already begun to bleed. The logical part of his brain reminded him that they were dreaming, but his protective side refused to acknowledge it. He cradled Arthur's head with one hand while he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. Arthur groaned when he applied pressure.

"I'm sorry, love, I should have known better. Any rush of memories has a tendency to be dizzying in dreams. You don't have a headache, do you?"

When Arthur shook his head, Eames breathed a sigh of relief. "The door might still be barricaded up there."

"Ariadne-"

"Is doing what she can to hold Yusuf's men off."

"Why are we here? She needs us." Arthur tried to sit up, but Eames put a hand on his chest to stop him.

"Plenty of time. We're under to save your life and to scrape up more information on Yusuf."

"There _is _nothing more," Arthur snapped. He pushed away Eames' hand to sit up and lean against the building beside them. Eames held the handkerchief until Arthur held it himself. "I don't know what you're looking for, Eames, and I don't know how to help you."

"I guessed as much, darling. That's why we're walking. We need to question your marvelous projections about what you don't consciously know-"

A thundering crash interrupted him. It shook the ground and threatened to topple nearby buildings.

Eames whipped his head around to see buildings in the distance falling. He swallowed. For some reason, the dream was already collapsing. They had to move fast.

"Up and at 'em." He grabbed Arthur's arm and gave it a great heave to help him stand.

"I'm not a cripple." Arthur shook him off and dropped the handkerchief. "We need to run for the main streets. Follow me." He took off in a burst of speed, his movements efficient as he ran for the alley.

Eames followed closely, determined not to be left behind. The ground shook more violently than before and noise roared in his ears. The air became thick with the dust of fallen buildings, making it difficult to see through a gray haze. The chances of them interogating projections and learning useful information before waking were slim at best.

But they had to try. Unknown to Arthur, Yusuf's men had probably already found them hooked up to the PASIV Device. It was only a matter of time until they were taken prisoner.

As they rounded the last turn, a projection stepped into the alley. Arthur slowed his pace only slightly as the man reached inside his jacket. Eames leapt onto Arthur's back and tackled him just as the bullets started flying. They hit the ground hard, rolling to the base of the building on the right.

It happened so fast that Eames barely noticed the blood spreading across his shoulder.

His eyes were only on the man who had shot at them. Only several paces away, the man's lips spread in a snarl. He raised the weapon again and shot Arthur in the head without batting an eye. Arthur's legs jerked and he let out a soft groan before stilling.

Eames closed his eyes and fought back his grief. It was only a dream.

"Why?" He struggled to sit up, panting as the pain of his shoulder wound hit him. "The dream is already collapsing and you have us where you want us."

The gun was aimed at his heart.

The man let out a humorless laugh. "Think of it as a gift from Yusuf."

Eames never heard the gunshot.


	9. Abducted

_Disclaimer: I own no part of inception. This is all in good fun._

* * *

Arthur's eyes snapped open. Though he recognized the ceiling above him, his chest rose with panicked breaths. He could still feel the bullet. It was difficult to recover when he couldn't remember going under.

"Arthur!" he heard Ariadne yell.

"Shut up!" another voice ordered.

Arthur looked around, quickly taking in the two men holding Ariadne by the door and the two more standing over him. He was laying on the floor for some reason… he lifted his wrist. The PASIV Device. A glance to his left confirmed that Eames had gone under with him, along with another thug Arthur didn't recognize. That would explain his death in the alley.

Eames jolted awake, bolting upright. His back was streaked with dirt and grime.

He groaned and clutched his chest, reminding Arthur of the gash he'd suffered back at the apartment.

"Are you all right?" Arthur reached out and touched his arm. Eames slowly nodded, eyes closed, but his jaw was flexing with obvious pain. The contracting muscles were cast in shadow.

"Rise and shine," one of the men beside them droned. His voice was low and dangerous.

Arthur unstrapped the cuff around his wrist as another man entered the room. The man threw clothing at them, clearly wanting them to get dressed. When Arthur slipped a shirt over his head, it was oversized to a fault. It was also speckled with blood and still warm from whoever had been wearing it mere seconds ago. He swallowed.

The thug who had slipped into the dream with them opened his eyes and got to his feet. His movements were deliberate and smooth. From the way he was dressed – a black suit much nicer than any Arthur owned – he must have been the one in charge.

Sure enough, he lazily held out his wrist for another man to free him from the cuff.

"You two gentlemen have caused quite the headache for a number of people," he drawled. Shooting a disdainful look in Ariadne's direction, he continued, "The girl too. If she hadn't been such a lousy shot, I'd have killed her on sight. But I like to think of myself as old-fashioned. Why shoot harmless little thing like her?"

Ariadne struggled against the men holding her at his insult, but to her credit, she stayed silent. The palm print on her cheek might have had something to do with it. Her eyes were hot with anger, and Arthur felt his own blood begin to boil at the thought of anyone hurting her. But they had to keep it together until they found a way out of this.

Eames let out a muffled cry, drawing their attention. His arms were through the shirt sleeves, but he was unable to lift it over his head.

The thug sighed with impatience. "We don't have all day, Mr. Eames. Yusuf is mighty anxious to see both of you. If our gesture of courtesy is slowing you down, perhaps you would be more comfortable going without."

Arthur had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from scoffing. It had nothing to do with courtesy. Two half-naked men walking to what was sure to be an unmarked van had a habit of drawing attention, even in the city. The last thing Yusuf's men needed was to draw suspicion after going through the trouble of tracking them down.

He glanced at the thug for permission to help Eames. When he received a nod so slight that he wasn't certain if he imagined it, Arthur slid over and carefully raised Eames' arms for him. The man's torso twisted in pain and his fists clenched, but he didn't try to resist. Arthur murmured an apology in a soothing tone, eying the bandage that was now tinged with blood. A stitch or two must have ripped.

He grabbed the hem of the garment with his fingertips and pulled it down as Eames' arms lowered. There was a glistening layer of sweat on the man's forehead.

"Pants too," the thug ordered. Arthur tried to help Eames to his feet. They needed to lean on one another after what they'd been through. Arthur grimly acknowledged that he'd died at least once in the last several hours, while Eames was clearly suffering from his wound.

When they were steady enough to stand on their own and begin sliding on pants, the thug turned to the men holding Ariadne. "Lock her in the room with the others. Yusuf never said anything about bringing back an architect."

Arthur slid on his pants in a hurry. He didn't bother with the buttons before leaping forward as they dragged her to the door. She began to panic, kicking and biting and scratching, but she was no match for them. In a desperate attempt to avoid being taken away, she clung to the doorframe. Arthur held her gaze for the briefest instant before a fierce yank that must have strained her elbows pulled her into the hall.

"No!" he yelled. An intense fear that he would never see her again gripped his heart in a vise.

One of the remaining men stepped forward and delivered a hard blow to his stomach. His muscles spasmed as he fell to the floor at Eames' feet. Eames knelt down and grabbed his shoulders, probably with the intention of holding him back. But he couldn't move. His lungs refused to breathe with him.

"Now, now," the thug scolded his associate. "You should be saving your best punches for when we return to base. He's dead weight, otherwise."

Arthur blinked against the black spots flooding his vision. A warm hand gripped the back of his neck to keep him from passing out. It hurt like hell, but he was able to stay conscious long enough to take a deep breath. Needles pricked his side, making him wonder if a rib had cracked. He nodded when he could see again and Eames released his neck.

"Stand him up and let's go," the thug ordered. "We have quite the drive ahead of us."

Eames gripped his arms and pulled him to his feet. Arthur's pants almost fell down in the process, and he took care to button them. They were still much too big, but he couldn't have cared less. His only concern was where Ariadne had been taken and if she would break free before she died of thirst.

_Lock her in the room with the others_, the thug had ordered. That must mean she was with men who could help her. The very men who had saved his life.

Anger was beginning to build at his very core. Unlike the anger he'd felt when he noticed someone had slapped Ariadne, this anger was calm and collected. It was organized and patient. After everything he'd been through, after _dying _because of his addiction to Yusuf's compound… men had broken into – well, wherever they were – and had imprisoned his healers and Ariadne. They were now taking him and Eames prisoner. And they probably planned to kill them.

Compound #1084 would never see the underground market. It was going to bite the dust _hard_, and he was going to be there when it happened.

These thoughts gave Arthur the strength to move when the thug motioned for him to step into the hallway. He didn't have shoes, probably a deliberate hindrance to keep him from running too fast or far if he had the chance. When he saw the pools of blood on the concrete, it was difficult to keep his mask of defiance in place.

He could feel Eames directly behind him when he hesitated. The man gave him a soft push to keep him moving.

The thug directed them as they moved down the hallway. His position behind them was likely intentional. If he had been in the lead, Arthur would have snapped his neck.

They continued walking until they were forced to climb a narrow staircase. Arthur glanced behind him for permission to open the door at the top, but Eames nodded firmly, apparently having been there before. When the door swung open, a draft pushed him back. It was caused by cars speeding past them in a wide tunnel. Orange lights glinted off two black vans on the shoulder.

Arthur memorized the license plate as they walked to the first van's side door, though he doubted the information would be of much use. These men were professionals.

A split second after he and Eames reached the side door, they were roughly pushed against it and handcuffed. Eames grunted in pain when his hands were yanked behind him. Arthur opened his mouth to ask if he was all right, but before he could, the van door slid open and a hood covered his head. Hands shoved him into the van.

Arthur landed hard on his left shoulder, his head bouncing off the van floor. Eames fell partially on top of him, stealing his breath for a moment.

"Sorry, darling." The man's body rolled once in attempt to move off of him. "Not hurting you, am I?"

"You are," Arthur grimaced, "But that's all right. We have bigger problems."

"I'll say."

"Just get off me, will you?"

"Working on it."

One grinding roll later, Eames' weight had left him. The van's engine started and Arthur felt the driver pull into traffic with unnecessary enthusiasm.

There was a thump and a soft curse from Eames.

"All right?" Arthur asked.

"Lovely."

Having a hood over his head made Arthur feel entirely helpless. Things could have been worse, however. They were conscious, free to talk, and had been left alone. Aside from the handcuffs and hoods, they hadn't been restrained in any way that would hinder planning to escape. It was a bit unsettling.

The sound of clicking metal caught his attention.

"What are you doing?" he asked, trying to balance enough to sit up. The result was cracking his chin on the floor when the van took a hard turn. He bit his tongue on impact and let out a frustrated groan. The taste of blood was like copper.

"I'm getting out of these handcuffs. Stay still. You'll hurt yourself."

"Who's being condescending now?" Arthur shot back. He spit blood on the inside of his hood to avoid swallowing it.

The hood was ripped off his head not a moment later. Eames scanned his face, apparently looking for the source of the blood.

"I bit my tongue," he explained.

"And even that couldn't shut you up, hmm?" Eames looked relieved as he slid behind Arthur to free him from the handcuffs.

"Asshole."

He grimaced as the metal around his wrists clamped down harder, then jumped when he felt a sharp pinch.

"Hold still," Eames muttered.

"You're not making it easy."

The handcuffs slipped off his wrists. He wasted no time massaging each wrist to be rid of the pins and needles that had started to plague his fingers.

"Someday, you need to teach me how to do that," he sighed. "What's the plan? Wait until we reach the city and hit the ground running?"

Eames shook his head as he found a comfortable sitting position. "I'm afraid that it doesn't end here, darling."

"Meaning?"

"We want to stop Yusuf, don't we? This van is taking us directly to him."

"What the hell did you unhandcuff us for then?"

"I could put them back on you if you prefer," Eames offered. He winced as he felt his chest. "What with the suggested length of the drive, I thought we'd be more comfortable out of handcuffs. We may not be free for a while."

"This is a bad idea."

Eames raised an eyebrow. "You have a better one?"


	10. The White Room

_Disclaimer: I own no part of Inception. This is all in good fun._

* * *

Arthur grumbled when Eames put the handcuffs back on.

The van had dramatically decreased its speed after at least half a day of driving. From the way it was shifting, they must have been moving over uneven ground. The unpredictability of the bumps suggested tree roots.

_Great_, Arthur thought. _We're being taken deep into an isolated forest, far from the city, and no one knows where we are._

"Remind me again how we have the upper hand," he demanded as the hood was dropped over his head.

"We both have something Yusuf wants, don't we?" Eames guided Arthur to sit against the wall.

"Did you see the man power back there?" Arthur snapped. "There's nothing to stop him from just taking whatever he wants."

"Don't be so tense, love."

Arthur's foot lashed out and connected with something. He heard Eames curse and fall over before catching his foot as it was going in for another kick. It angered him further when he tried to yank free and couldn't.

"Let go!" he barked.

An arm snaked around his thigh to hold his leg immobile while another yanked off his hood and then pressed against his neck, effectively pinning him against the wall.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Eames' breath was hot against his face. "Stop fighting me. I'm not the one who locked Ariadne up. I'm not the one who shoved you into this van. And I'm not the one who addicted you to the compound you wish you had right now."

The tension slowly melted from Arthur's shoulders and he looked away. Somewhere within him, he knew Eames was right. He was beginning to withdrawal again. Irrational irritation was the first sign.

When he met Eames' eyes again, it was with a reluctant expression of apology. As soon as Eames realized he was done fighting, he released Arthur's leg and removed his arm.

"This whole situation…" Arthur muttered.

"I know."

Eames picked up the hood again and motioned for Arthur to lean forward. As soon as the hood was replaced, he heard Eames put his own hood and handcuffs back on.

They sat in silence for the next five minutes or so. With the plan loosely put together on the way, there wasn't much left to say.

The soft squeal of brakes made Arthur straighten as the van came to a stop. A rush of adrenaline flooded his veins and his breath came faster. He heard the muffled sound of another van stopping and the slamming of doors. Foreign shouting made him strain his ears, but he didn't recognize the language.

"Just breathe," Eames muttered. "Try to stay calm. Your system is under enough stress as it is."

Arthur tried to calm down, but he wasn't the one with military training. As a Point Man, he had no idea what to expect from their captors. A cement cell with nothing but a toilet bowl came to mind.

He heard the van door unlatch and slide open.

Someone climbed in and grabbed his upper arm, dragging him out. The moment his bare feet hit the ground, he tried to stand and walk, but the hood over his head made it impossible to judge the terrain. Grass. Dirt. He clenched his jaw. Roots. Smooth pavement.

He kept stubbing his toes and rolling his ankles as the terrain changed. From the scuffling sounds behind him, Eames wasn't faring much better. The grip on his arm shifted. Whoever was holding him yelled something in frustration.

They released his arm before an iron grip around his waist stole his breath. He was slung over a shoulder. Hard muscle ground against his stomach and hips. It was painful, but the shift in gravity gave him the opportunity he needed to try to get the hood off.

Arthur was in the process of shaking his head back and forth when he was tossed onto something soft. He struggled to sit up. The hood was yanked off his head, revealing a blinding white light. As his eyes struggled to adjust, someone grabbed his arm and rolled him onto his stomach. He heard the jingling of keys before the handcuffs were yanked off his wrists.

Scant seconds later, a door slammed.

He was alone.

The transfer from the van had only lasted seconds, which meant the men were well trained and knew their way around the complex. It wasn't much to go on, but it was something.

Arthur rolled over and rubbed his wrists as he sat up.

A glance around made his heart lurch. What he saw was more frightening than the dark, dank holding cell he expected.

Everything was white. The tiles on the ceiling and floor seemed to be emitting light, though with how bright it was, he wouldn't have been surprised to learn that light was also coming through the walls. The room looked sterile.

Even more terrifying, however, was how _permanent_ it felt. There was a wooden desk and a chair. A bed and a dresser. A toilet, a shower without a curtain, a sink… everything immaculately, blindingly white. Everything he would need to permanently reside here.

Damn.

Each upper corner of the room also housed a white camera. Arthur had a gut-wrenching feeling that he'd just become a permanent human guinea pig for Yusuf's compounds.

His head was reeling as he noticed the intercom system near the door. Where would Yusuf get the funding? He stumbled to the control panel. How long had Yusuf been experimenting on dreamers? Arthur pushed the call button. Was the man brilliant, insane, or just the same greedy chemist he'd revealed himself to be on the Fischer job?

"Hey," he barked into the speaker. "Someone answer me, dammit."

"Yes?" an accented male voice asked.

"I want to speak to Yusuf. Now."

"Sir," the voice began, sounding bored, "You are being held for observation and further testing. It is in your best interest to wait until we can further access your physical and mental condition. That is all."

The intercom button no longer lit up when Arthur pushed it. He pushed the button again and again, eventually punching it in frustration. Feeling like a trapped wild animal, he ran both hands over his hair and began to pace. Thinking clearly was impossible. If only his heart stopped pounding, he might have been able to manage it.

As it was, anger simmered inside him until he stubbed his toe on a leg of the desk chair.

Then it boiled over.

He picked up the chair and threw it against the wall with a yell of exertion. When it didn't break, he picked it up again and slammed it into the desk. It felt equally gratifying and painful as the recoil jarred his hands. Ignoring the pain, he slammed the chair into the desk as hard as he could. Again. And again.

A hissing sound drew Arthur's attention to small holes in the wall that had appeared seemingly from nowhere. They were releasing a thin smoke, and it didn't take a Point Man to realize the vapor was a sedative.

_If I'm going down_, he thought, turning to the far left camera, _It won't be without a fight_.

Arthur launched the chair at the camera. It collided with a satisfying _crunch_, the chair falling to the floor as the camera dangled by its wires. He smugly noted the cracked lens before his legs gave out.

As his head hit the floor and his eyes fluttered closed, Arthur clung to the mental image that, just maybe, the bored man behind the intercom had displayed an expression of indignation at the realization that one of his cameras was broken.

* * *

_Reviews appreciated - they make my day. I know this chapter was a tad short and I apologize for that. For those of you who don't know, I've published another Arthur/Eames bromance called Between Two Lives. Check it out._

_09/03/12 Update: I have not let this story go. I am still writing. Patience, grasshopper. _


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